


It’s Never Just a Simple Salt and Burn

by monday7112



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spn_j2_bigbang, Gen, Ghosts, Monster of the Week, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-28
Updated: 2010-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monday7112/pseuds/monday7112
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby usually spends the anniversary of his wife’s death drinking his sorrows away but this year it's been five years.  Time to move on, he figures so he picks what he thinks will be a simple salt-and-burn and does his best to push the memories of his wife’s death to the back of his mind.  When the case turns out not to be as simple as it seems he forms a partnership with John Winchester, another hunter who’s in town after the same spirit.  While the two men race to find the spirit before she can kill again, Bobby finds that she isn’t the only ghost he has to confront if he’s going to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> About this time last year, I was just dipping my toes in the Supernatural fandom and one of the first things I came across was the [](http://spn-j2-bigbang.livejournal.com/profile)[**spn_j2_bigbang**](http://spn-j2-bigbang.livejournal.com/). I had a vague notion that maybe I might try to write something for 2010 but didn’t think I’d actually do it. Apparently I really am that insane (or, as my icon for the challenge stated, into literary BDSM) because here I am!
> 
> I could not have taken on a project this big by myself. Thank you, [](http://callie-828.livejournal.com/profile)[**callie_828**](http://callie-828.livejournal.com/) , [](http://simplymarvie.livejournal.com/profile)[**simplymarvie**](http://simplymarvie.livejournal.com/) and [](http://13chapters.livejournal.com/profile)[**13chapters**](http://13chapters.livejournal.com/) for analyzing and discussing every little detail, thought, action, piece of canon, possible plot hole and out of place comma and for helping me resolve each one. I know it was a lot to ask of you and you were wonderful throughout the entire process. Thank you so much for holding my hand and helping me put my best possible work out there. You ladies are amazing betas and even more amazing friends and I’m lucky to have you all as both.
> 
> I also want to thank my first reader, [](http://1orelei.livejournal.com/profile)[**1orelei**](http://1orelei.livejournal.com/) and all of the cheerleaders over at [](http://ficfinishing.livejournal.com/profile)[**ficfinishing**](http://ficfinishing.livejournal.com/) who kept me motivated (and more importantly, writing!) when I was sure I wasn’t going to make the deadline.

_Memorial Day, 1984_

Bobby lifted the shot glass to his lips and tilted it back, savoring the burn of the whiskey as it slid down his throat and warmed him up from the inside out. He looked at the glass after he had finished the shot then set it down on the bar, catching the bartender’s eye and nodding to signal for another one. He was in the middle of a hunt for what was turning out to be one bitch of a vengeful spirit and at the moment all he wanted to do was just forget the day. Well, that wasn’t quite true. He wanted to forget all of it—not just this hunt, but every hunt, every creature he had fought and every form of evil he had ever come across; to forget that monsters were real and sometimes reality ran rampant over reason.

The bartender set another shot down in front of him and he tilted that one back too, closing his eyes as he drained the glass, knowing that when he opened them he would still be sitting at this same shitty roadside bar and none of the memories that he never wanted to have would be gone but still hoping anyway. He finished the shot and opened his eyes again, the hand which was resting on the bar gripping it tightly as he fought the waves of despair which came from the realization that he was still here. Here and not at home in bed, his wife curled up asleep beside him. This was real and no amount of wishing or hoping or praying or alcohol would change that reality.

The bartender looked over when he heard the sound of the Bobby’s glass slamming down on the bar and raised an eyebrow. Bobby nodded to the unspoken question. He wanted another. And another. And another. The bartender gave him a long look then poured the drink. He handed it to Bobby with a nod then moved on down the bar to take care of some new arrivals at the other end. Bobby picked up the shot but didn’t throw it back this time. Instead, he stared at the amber liquid and tried unsuccessfully to fight back the memories which were now threatening to overcome the defenses he had patched together over the years so that he could continue functioning.

 _The smell of dinner cooking in the kitchen greeted him as he walked through the door and he felt a slight panic as he wondered what the occasion was. Although his wife loved to bake she wasn’t overly fond of cooking and so the responsibility of making sure they were both fed every night typically fell to Bobby. He’d become a decent chef in his own right over the years but on rare occasions when she wanted to celebrate she would take over and whip up some gourmet recipe she’d found in one of his cookbooks._

 _His mind quickly ran through the calendar. He hadn’t missed her birthday, had he? No. That was in November. Their anniversary? No, that was July. It was just mid-April and he couldn’t think of anything that he had missed. Now that he had ruled out special occasions his next thought was that his in-laws were coming for an unexpected visit and she hadn’t called him at work to let him know because she knew he’d be less than excited at the prospect._

 _Grumbling about common decency dictating that you warn a man when he is going to have to be around his mother-in-law all night, he walked through the dining room and into the kitchen. His wife was standing at the stove and humming, three different pots with various meal components bubbling away in front of her. She had pulled her hair back with a pencil in the way that always made Bobby wonder how it stayed put. A few strands had escaped and curled slightly at the base of her neck. She dipped a finger into one of the pots, lifting it to her mouth to taste and all thoughts of his in-laws flew out of Bobby’s head. All he could think about was wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her tightly against him and running his lips along the smooth skin of her neck as…_

 _She turned around then, interrupting his thoughts before they could get too distracting and smiled. “Bobby!” she exclaimed running over to him and wrapping her arms around his waist, her lips catching his in a lingering kiss. He pulled away and quirked an eyebrow, his suspicions of her reasons for cooking seemingly confirmed. At the very least, something was definitely up. He loved his wife but she was never quite this happy to see him. Typically she was in the middle of something or other and he’d get a half-hearted kiss and a “how was your day?” as she went back to whatever she’d been doing when he arrived._

“You ready for another?” the bartender asked, interrupting Bobby’s train of thought and causing the image of Karen to evaporate.

Bobby looked up to find the bartender staring at him. At some point, he had downed the last shot of whiskey though he didn’t remember having taken a sip. He pushed the glass away, sliding it across the bar and rubbing his hands through his hair. The more whiskey he drank, the harder it would be to keep those memories at bay and he had a job to do - one he’d be unable to do with memories of Karen this close to the surface, distracting him. He shook his head and stood up. Pulling out his wallet, he threw a couple of bills on the bar. “That cover my tab?” he asked.

The bartender picked up the money and counted it, then nodded. “Yeah, that more than does it. You want change?”

Bobby might need the money later but right now he didn’t want to wait around for the bartender to give it back to him; he just wanted to get out of there, as though by leaving he could leave the memories behind, too. “Keep it,” he answered, turning and making his way out of the bar.

 _This time of year is always the hardest,_ he reminded himself as he climbed into his truck and turned the key in the ignition. He would get through it. He did every year. He just had to focus on the job. He yanked the steering wheel to the right and gunned the gas, heading toward the motel he was calling home for the duration of the hunt. A few minutes later he was turning into the motel parking lot and swinging the truck into a spot in front of his room.

As he was making his way toward the door, a car a few spots down caught his eye and he walked over to have a closer look. It was a black ‘67 Chevy Impala and he whistled quietly, impressed. Bobby had been in auto salvage in his former life—still was as far as everyone from that life knew, for that matter—and he knew enough about cars to appreciate this one. It wasn’t often you saw a car like that around nowadays, not in that kind of condition. And not in a motel parking lot like this one. He gave the car another long once over before turning and heading inside.

As the door shut behind him he scanned the room and then grabbed the container of salt he had in his bag, quickly making salt lines around the door and window. He was putting the salt away when the wail of a baby came from the next room over and he slammed his fist into the wall in frustration.

All he needed was a baby screaming all night, keeping him awake.

* * *

The next morning arrived entirely too quickly for Bobby’s liking, particularly because he had been unable to fall asleep until some time after 3am due to the crying infant, at which point dreams of his wife had taken over, causing him to toss and turn for the duration. The memory of the dreams faded quickly as he dragged himself out of bed and to the bathroom for a quick shower but the unsettled feeling did not. He tried to shake it off as he got dressed and headed over to the motel office for some coffee. It was time to get some work done.

The bell over the door announced his arrival in the room. A man standing at the counter turned with a quick jerk and gave Bobby a once over. Bobby met his gaze with an answering one of his own, the two men sizing each other up before nodding.

“That your car out there?” Bobby asked. The man nodded but didn’t say a word, not so much as a trace of a smile lightening the somber expression on his face. “They don’t make them like that anymore, I can tell you that much.”

“No they don’t,” the man agreed before turning again to the counter. The clerk had apparently returned with whatever information he needed because she handed him a piece of paper with some writing on it. Bobby heard her say something along the lines of “she said she can be there in 15 minutes” at which point the man thanked her and left without so much as a second glance at Bobby, who couldn’t help but wonder what the story was there. Usually the people he met in these motel lobbies were more than anxious to chat him up and since they could be good sources of information he had gotten decent at feigning interest in whatever anecdote they happened to be sharing. He was typically the quiet, gruff one in the exchanges. It made him feel a bit out of sorts to have the tables turned.

“Sir, may I help you?” the young lady working the front counter asked, interrupting his musing.

“Yes,” he said with a nod. “I just need a cup of coffee, please.”

“Sure,” she agreed disappearing into the back then reappearing shortly with his coffee.

“Thanks,” he said. “I won’t be needing room service today,” he added. He had learned early on in this gig it was best to keep everyone out. There were only so many ways one could explain the salt all over the floor and the newspaper clippings of recent deaths in the city pinned to the wall before housekeeping started to become suspicious.

“Would you at least like some new towels, then?” she asked, reaching under the counter and coming back up with a set of towels.

“Sure,” he said, grabbing them and walking toward the door. “Thank you!” he threw back over his shoulder as he opened the door to leave. She gave him a wide smile. The smile caught Bobby’s attention and he paused, looking her over. She was a petite thing, all of 5’1” tall, blonde hair, baby blue eyes and a smile as wide open as the South Dakota prairie. Were it any other weekend, any other hunt, any other time, he’d ask her out for drinks. But it wasn’t. It was the anniversary of his wife’s death and the memories were a little too close to the surface. While most of the time he could bury himself in the scent of a beautiful woman as a means to forget, right now it would feel too much like a betrayal of the woman he’d intended to grow old with. He answered her smile with a half-hearted one of his own and walked out the door, the sound of the bell over the doorway tinkling in the clear morning air as the door shut behind him.

Once outside Bobby took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of freshly mown grass and dandelions, then headed back to his room. Tossing the towels on the bed he reached for his duffel bag and began packing. As he was getting the tools of his particular trade together and ready to go he heard the unmistakable roar of the engine belonging to the Impala and again found himself wondering about the man who drove it. He was no tourist in town for a good time. Of that much Bobby was certain. He was here for a purpose though what that might be remained a mystery.

He shook his head then resumed packing, heading out about 20 minutes after the other car had left. He figured he should probably head straight to the records office but his stomach was rumbling, indicating that he needed breakfast and since the spirit he was hunting was haunting a local bed-and-breakfast, which was closed while the police conducted their investigation on the recent murder, he figured he had some time before he needed to be hurrying.

He headed into town, keeping his eyes open for a diner and pulled into a space out front of the first one that he saw. It was just like every other restaurant in every other smallish town he’d visited over the years and he cringed at the thought that places like these were beginning to feel far more like home than the dusty, neglected place he owned back in South Dakota. Walking inside he glanced around, then grabbed a seat at the counter.

“Be right with you,” the waitress said. She was at the other end of the bar, refilling the coffee cups of the two men sitting down there. She set the coffee pot back on the burner then reached into her pocket and pulled out her order pad and a pen in one swift motion that told Bobby she’d been doing this job for quite some time. “What can I get for you?” she asked.

He glanced at the menu. “I’ll have the special. Over easy on the eggs and make it bacon instead of sausage on the side.”

“Got it, sugar,” she said with a smile. “You want anything else? Cup of coffee, maybe?”

Bobby nodded then looked around. “You happen to have a newspaper?” he asked. She reached under the counter and tossed a paper in front of him. The front page story, as it had been for several days now, was about the abduction and subsequent murder of a young woman, which also happened to be the reason Bobby was in town.

“Terrible thing,” the waitress said. “She was newly engaged, too.”

“What have you heard about it?” Bobby asked. A woman who worked at a place like this was almost always a valuable source of information.

She looked him over as though appraising him then nodded. “Those two gentlemen down there are cops,” she said. “They were the first on the scene when the body was found and they said that her ring finger had been cut off.” Bobby’s head jerked up in interest. The newspaper article hadn’t mentioned the missing finger.

The waitress misinterpreted Bobby’s look of surprise for disgust and bobbed her head in agreement. “It’s horrible, I know. Can you imagine? Who would chop someone’s ring finger off?”

Bobby had a few ideas. He had spent the better part of last week interviewing local residents and the owner of the bed-and-breakfast. His research had yielded two additional murders, the first of which was nothing more than a rumor—or so the innkeeper claimed—and had supposedly occurred in the early 1920s. Suspect list in hand, he had gone to the library and found that the first death was more than just rumor. He had printed off all of the articles he could find on the deaths and retreated to his room to analyze the information.

The one piece of the puzzle that Bobby was still lacking was what had been done with the body of the ghost behind the deaths. He had determined that the victim of the first murder was the vengeful spirit behind the other two deaths however he had not thought to look for obituaries so he would have the burial information on hand. Thanks to Memorial Day the records office and the library had been closed yesterday when he had realized his oversight, but both were open for business today and he was hoping to get the information he needed and end the damn thing before anyone else was unfortunate enough to stumble upon her.  
Bobby shook his head. “Crazy world we live in,” he agreed.

She nodded then glanced at the table behind him. “Looks like they need their coffee refilled. You let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

* * *

An hour later and Bobby was finally at the records office, cursing himself for forgetting that government offices were always extra busy after a long weekend and not getting there as soon as they opened. Another forty-five minutes later and he was finally out the door without the information he’d come for in the first place. As it turned out, the records office he visited was actually the second generation, the first having burned down some twenty years prior, taking with it all records stored therein including the burial location of his spirit. This bitch was really beginning to piss him off. He walked back out to the truck, taking a deep breath to calm himself down then got in and headed over to the library. After two hours of scanning microfiche he finally met with a little luck and was able to find the obituary of his prime suspect which, thankfully, included information on the woman’s burial. Better yet, she hadn’t been cremated meaning that a quick and dirty salt and burn was in order and he could be out of town first thing in the morning.

Information in hand, he headed back to the motel to grab a quick nap, figuring he would head over to the cemetery after dark. As he pulled into the parking lot a baby toddled out from between two cars right in front of him. Bobby swerved and slammed on the brakes, only narrowly avoiding hitting him. As the truck skidded to a stop, a little boy with a stick in his hand came running out behind him and a harried-looking woman came running after them both. The older child grabbed his brother’s hand and tugged him away from the truck, his terrified eyes meeting Bobby’s as he did so. Bobby could feel his heart beginning to pound out of control in his chest as the world slanted out from underneath him. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Once the wave of vertigo had passed he let go of the steering wheel, which he had been gripping so tightly that his knuckles had turned white and rolled down his window to yell at the woman who had been chasing the boys.

“You want to be careful,” he said, his voice sounding shaky even to his own ears. He drew in a few more deep breaths.

She gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” she said. “They’ve been on the road a few days and today’s the first chance they’ve had to stretch their legs.”

“Don’t want it to be the last,” he said.

The woman nodded then turned her attention back to the boys who were picking up rocks in one of the empty parking spaces. “Dean! Get over here! I told you to stay on the grass! You’re setting a bad example for Sammy!” She picked up the baby and hauled him over to the grass in front of the office, Dean tagging along beside.

Once Bobby was sure both boys were safely out of the way, he pulled his truck into a spot and killed the engine. After a few more seconds in which he tried to calm his still-racing heart, he got out of the truck and headed into his room, closing the door and shutting the curtains against the bright sunlight from outside. He sat on the bed and dropped his head into his hands, trying to regain full control of his emotions. This was getting ridiculous.

He walked over to the sink and splashed some water on his face then paced back over to the bed, laying down and closing his eyes. Outside he could hear the occasional sound of Dean shouting. He groaned, grabbed the pillow and pulled it over his head. Between the baby last night—which he was guessing was Sam—and Dean today, it appeared that these boys were going to do everything they could to make sure he never slept again.

* * *

It was dark when Bobby woke up from his nap. Apparently sleep had found him in spite of the noise outside. He glanced at the clock and saw it was after 10 which meant it was time for him to go to work. Grabbing the bag he had packed earlier he headed out to the truck, noting that the Impala had not returned. Not sure why he was so damned focused on that car and the man who drove it, he got into the truck and gunned it, heading for the cemetery. Time to salt and burn this bitch so he could move on to the next job.

When he arrived at the cemetery he drove into the service entrance then parked the truck in the shadows so it was out of view from the street. He had no idea how long it would take him to find the grave in question and he didn’t want to attract the attention of any passing police cars should one happen to come by. Pulling his duffel bag out of the back of the truck, he switched on his flashlight and made his way into the cemetery proper, doing a quick scan of the layout. Fortunately it wasn’t a large cemetery and he figured he could find the grave without too much trouble. He pointed the flashlight toward the first row of headstones and got to work.

With a little more than one-third of the cemetery left he finally got to the name he was looking for: Evangeline Simmons. During his research Bobby had discovered that she’d been murdered in the early 1920s by her ex-fiancé who had come to get his mother’s ring back so he could give it to his current girlfriend. Evangeline had refused to return it and in the ensuing fight her fiancé had killed her then removed her ring—finger still attached. It was a terrible thing to happen to a person but any sympathy he might have been tempted to feel was mitigated by her behavior in the afterlife. She had taken at least two other lives that he knew of and it was time for her to be put to rest, wherever and whatever that might be.

Throwing his duffel down, he rummaged around, grabbed the shovel and started digging, relishing the silent protest of his muscles as he dug. It was moments like these that made him feel alive, made him feel like he was actually accomplishing something, making sense out of the madness which surrounded him. Hearing the sound of metal hitting metal he paused, wiped the sweat off his brow then continued digging on either side until he had exposed the casket. He pried it open then climbed out of the grave and grabbed the gasoline container that he kept filled with rock salt and liberally covered her with it, then doused her in lighter fluid. He recited the Lord’s Prayer, as he always did every time he was taking down a spirit like this just in case there was actually a heaven, then lit the match, said amen and tossed it into the grave. It lit up like a bonfire and he stood for a moment, watching, before gathering up his supplies and beginning to make his way back to the truck. Two cop cars had come past during the time he’d spent in the cemetery. No telling when another would be by and if they saw the fire they would definitely be over to investigate. His job here done, he climbed back in the truck and pointed it toward the motel. He intended to spend what remained of the night there and leave out for South Dakota in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

The return route took Bobby right past the bed-and-breakfast where the deaths had occurred. As the building came into view his headlights glinted off the body of a car parked in the shadows off to the side. His curiosity piqued, he slowed the truck and turned in for a closer look. He swung the truck around the side and realized that the car which had caught his attention was the Impala from the motel parking lot.

“So he’s a hunter,” Bobby mumbled, that mystery solved. He pulled the truck in beside the Impala and cut the engine. He might as well go in and let the man know that he’d taken care of the bitch.

He approached the hotel cautiously and knocked loudly on the front door. Generally speaking it was best not to sneak up on a hunter. “Hello?” he called out, looking inside. He didn’t see any movement so he opened the door and stepped inside, flipping on the flashlight that he’d brought with him from the truck and running it around the room. It passed over the front desk, a little seating area arranged in a cluster around the fireplace and a small bar in the corner, but there was no movement in the room. “Anyone in here?”

The next thing he heard was the thud of boots against the hardwood floor and then he was staring at a flashlight pointed directly at his face. He blinked and held up his hand to shield his eyes. “You wanna lower that a little?” he asked.

The man obliged but kept the light shining in Bobby’s general direction. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Same thing you’re doing here,” Bobby answered.

“What do you know about what I’m doing?” the man asked, hand resting on the gun holstered under his jacket.

“Enough to be able to tell you that I’ve taken care of it. Salted and burned her tonight.”

The man’s expression went from wary to incredulous. “You’re a hunter, then?” he said.

“No, I’m a cop. They’ve started training us on how to take out ghosts,” Bobby responded. “Idjit.”

The man dropped his hand from his gun though his eyes narrowed at Bobby’s words and Bobby wouldn’t have been surprised in the slightest if he’d taken a swing at him. This one was wound tight. He looked Bobby up and down again. “I’m John,” he said, holding out his hand. “John Winchester.”

Bobby took his hand and shook it. “Bobby Singer,” he said.

“So she’s taken care of?” Bobby didn’t particularly like the note of suspicion in John’s voice but he ignored it. They were both on the same side here.

“Been here all weekend hunting her. Was out at the cemetery tonight.”

John nodded and then shoved his hands in his pockets, looking around. “Never met another hunter,” he said. “Wasn’t even sure there was anyone else crazy enough to choose to do this.”

Bobby felt the rush of emotion hit before he could stop it, memory after memory tumbling out from behind the wall he usually kept so high that nothing could get past it. It was this goddamn time of year. He narrowed his eyes and swallowed hard. “Don’t know anybody who chooses this life,” was all he said, flipping off his flash light and tucking it in his inside jacket pocket. “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know this job’s taken care of so you aren’t wasting your time here.”

“Appreciate it,” John said. He reached down and picked something up from the bar, examining it closely.

Bobby watched him for a second but when it became clear that John had already forgotten his presence he turned toward the door. “Take care,” he said. He was pushing the door open when he felt it. The air went suddenly cold. Before he could react, the door slammed shut again, the deadbolt sliding closed seemingly of its own free will.

With a sinking feeling Bobby realized that he’d left all of his weapons in the car, leaving him with no way to defend himself. “Son of a bitch,” he swore, slamming his fist into the wall and turning around. Evangeline Simmons was standing on the other side of the room, clutching a knife. She stared at John then reached out her left hand, revealing a bloodied stump where her ring finger had been and said something Bobby couldn’t make out.

John didn’t hesitate. Diving across the room he grabbed his duffel bag off of the front desk. Reaching inside, he pulled out a container of rock salt and threw it at the spirit who disappeared with a frustrated screech.

“I thought you said you took care of this bitch,” John shouted.

“I did,” Bobby answered. “Salted and burned her over an hour ago.”

“Then how the hell’s she still here?” John asked.

Bobby was wondering the same thing himself but there would be time later to figure out that particular mystery. At the moment they needed to get out of the building before they became her next two victims. “No idea,” he admitted, “but we’re sure as hell not going to figure it out tonight. Let’s get out of here before she gets back.”

Bobby wrenched open the door and made his way down the porch steps, John tucking the salt back into his bag and then following suit. Once outside they made their way over to the side of the building where the vehicles were parked before stopping to catch their breath. Bobby looked up and found John looking at him as though he were trying to make a decision. “You, uh…wanna grab a drink?” he said finally. “Talk over what we’ve got to see if we can figure out why this bitch is still hanging around?”

Bobby’s knee jerk reaction was to tell John to buzz off, that he didn’t need any help finishing the job, but then he thought about the stacks of research waiting for him to comb through again back at the motel and suddenly a drink didn’t sound like such a bad idea. He nodded. “Yeah. There’s a bar about a half mile past the motel.”

“I’ll meet up with you there,” John said. “I’ve got to run back by my room first. Grab my wallet.”

“Don’t worry about it. I owe you a drink anyway,” Bobby said.

John shrugged. “Still need to look in on my boys,” he said. “Make sure they’re okay with the sitter.”

Bobby’s stomach dropped at the words but before he could respond John climbed into the Impala, the engine roaring to life as he drove off. Bobby stared after him until long after the dust clouds kicked up by the car had settled, his fists clenching against his sides. Son of a bitch. Those two boys at the motel were John’s? What in the hell was he doing in the hunting business?

* * *

Bobby raged the entire way back to the motel, debating internally whether or not to go to the bar. He was a little afraid of the intensity of his anger at John’s revelation that he had children and he wondered if he wasn’t better off just leaving the hunt for John to finish and finding another job to work that was far away from John and his sons. But in the end he decided that he’d promised the man a drink and Bobby wasn’t one to go back on his word, even with a matter as small as a drink. And besides, he never quit a hunt in the middle of it. The way he figured it, his honor and his good name were about the only things he had left in this world and while it might not matter to anyone else that he skipped out on a drink and left a hunt he’d started to another capable hunter, well. It mattered to him.

Twenty minutes later Bobby arrived at the same bar he’d been in last night, trying to remind himself that whatever John chose to do with his life—and his children—was none of his damn business. The second Bobby walked through the door the bartender reached down and pulled out a shot glass. “Same as last night?” he asked and Bobby nodded, dropping into a chair at a table in the corner. He was going through a mental inventory of the information he’d gathered on Evangeline, trying to figure out what he’d missed when John arrived. He immediately felt his temper begin to rise and he took a few deep breaths, again reminding himself that John’s life was none of his goddamned business and it didn’t matter what he may or may not think about John bringing his two boys on the road hunting with him.

John nodded in Bobby’s direction and headed over to the bar to order his drink. “Put it on my tab,” Bobby called out to the bartender who nodded, grabbed a glass and poured John a beer. John smiled as he picked up the glass and made his way over to where Bobby was sitting.

Bobby motioned to the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks,” John said, sitting down and taking a sip of his beer. He glanced around the bar, sizing up the place. “Must be one of these in every small town in the country,” he observed.

Bobby didn’t say anything, just gave John a long appraising look. “How long you been in the business?” he asked finally.

John looked up quickly, met Bobby’s eyes for a brief minute and then stared back down at the glass of beer in front of him. He swallowed hard. “Half a year, maybe,” he said. He didn’t offer anything further, no story, no explanation for how he’d gotten started or why he’d chosen this life.

Bobby wasn’t a man who was often or even easily surprised but he found he was taken off-guard by John’s answer to his question. He had run across his fair share of rookies during his time hunting. Most of them didn’t live beyond that first six months anyway and those that did took years to develop the poise that John had shown at the bed-and-breakfast.

“You look surprised,” John said.

“Most rookies would have fallen apart when our friend Evangeline showed up,” Bobby said, giving credit where credit was due. John had kept his head when things didn’t go as planned and dealt with the situation like someone with far more than six months of experience. He may have issues with the fact that John was in the business considering he had kids to raise but John had given him no reason to think he wasn’t fit for it.

John acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod of his head and then took another long drink, contemplating Bobby.

“Five years,” he said, answering John’s unasked question. “Almost exactly.”

He didn’t offer any explanation for his own initiation into the select club either and John didn’t ask. The silence stretched between them but Bobby didn’t mind it. Some hunters wanted to tell you their whole life stories they were so damn starved for company and someone else who understood the solitary life. Some were like John, quiet, taciturn, still battling whatever demons had led them to take to the back roads, destroying whatever evil they happened to find along the way. Bobby was of the latter variety, preferring to keep his story close to the vest. Part of it was because it wasn’t anyone else’s damn business how he’d gotten started hunting in the first place; the only details they needed to hear to decide if they were going to work with him or move on was how long he’d been hunting and, if they wanted to press him, a few war stories. Part of it was because even after all of this time the wound was still so fresh, so raw that he just _couldn’t_ talk about it. Not with anyone, let alone with some stranger he’d just met, the only shared knowledge and common hatred of the hidden evil in the world the only thing bringing them together. Loneliness was part of the job and anyone who couldn’t learn to be with just themselves for long stretches of time would slowly drive themselves mad. He didn’t need to tell his life story to feel a connection to another human being; didn’t need connections to other human beings, period, except those that could be counted on to help him out on those rare occasions that he needed a hand.

The two men finished their drinks in silence. Bobby got up to order another round and when he sat back down John had apparently decided the time for socializing was over. “How do you want to deal with this bitch?” he asked.

Bobby shifted his weight and cleared his throat before speaking. “Listen, John, I appreciate your help back there but I…work alone,” he said. “I’ll get her taken care of tomorrow. I’m sure you’ve already got the next job in mind. You don’t need to waste your time here.”

“Appreciate that you don’t usually work with a partner,” John returned. “I’m the same way. And believe me, I have the same concerns about your capability as you have about mine—” Bobby felt another hot rush of anger wash over him. He clenched the hand that was not wrapped around his beer into a fist. The only thing that stopped him from taking a swing at the man sitting across from him was the recognition that he’d have the same concerns if the roles were reversed. If he’d done the job properly they wouldn’t have been ambushed back at the bed-and-breakfast and they’d be having an entirely different conversation at the bar right now, if they had gotten drinks at all. “—but I don’t leave a job halfway through.”

Bobby relaxed his fist and took a deep breath, once again finding he couldn’t argue with John without arguing his own position. He wasn’t about to leave the hunt half-finished either. Bobby stared at John who met his gaze without flinching. “Fair enough,” he said. “But since I’ve been working the hunt longer than you and got more background than you, I’m taking the lead on this, understand?”

John nodded. “So long as you’re clear that I’m not some wet-behind-the-ears rookie who needs his hand held.”

Bobby picked up his glass, downed the beer remaining and set it back on the table before he answered. “We’ll see about that,” he said, standing up and pulling out his wallet. “Meet in my room in the morning. We can start combing through the information I’ve dug up then.” He threw a few bills down on the table and made his way out of the bar figuring that if he were going to be working with the man for the next few days it’d be easier if he didn’t punch him. At least not until it was all over, anyway.

Thanks to his afternoon nap Bobby was still wide awake when he arrived back at the motel so he threw his duffel on the chair and made his way over to the dinette where his stack of research and notes on the job was loosely organized. With a sigh he reached into his bag and pulled out a notebook and pen then set to work carefully re-reading each article, making notes about details that may or may not be relevant to the case and looking for anything he might have missed the first time through.

A couple of hours later Bobby had a notebook filled with scribbles that would be meaningless to anyone but him. He began taping the pictures of the two victims and Evangeline along with their various details to the mirror using string to draw connections where he’d found them. Bobby finished taping up a picture from the final article and stood back, surveying his handiwork. On occasion the patterns which escaped him when he put them on paper would reveal themselves once he started tacking them to the wall, but there was simply nothing there beyond what he’d known since before he’d begun his research. All signs pointed to Evangeline. What was he missing? With a growl of frustration he tossed his notebook back on the table and stormed into the bathroom to shower off the grave dirt he’d been wearing since he’d dug her up earlier in the evening. Time to admit he was getting no further tonight and give it up until morning.


	3. Chapter 3

“So this is everything you have?” John asked, staring at the wall where Bobby had organized all of the information the previous night. He’d arrived bright and early at 8am, two cups of coffee in hand and his boys nowhere in sight. Bobby had resisted the urge to ask who was watching the children and how in the hell John knew he could trust whoever it was and instead took the cup of coffee and motioned for John to come inside. They’d been staring up at the board for the last 20 minutes, talking through the details and John complimenting Bobby on the thorough legwork. “I can see why you thought a salt-and-burn would take care of her,” John said, scratching his head. “Looks cut and dry on paper.”

“Looks it,” Bobby said, “but she’s not the first who’s fooled me.”

“How far back did you go?” John asked.

“Until I found Evangeline,” Bobby said. “As far as I can tell only these two deaths fit her pattern.”

“Did you look at deaths outside of the bed-and-breakfast?”

Bobby blinked, wondering where John was going with this. He hadn’t been hunting long but he had to know that ghosts tended to be tied to specific locations of importance to them. In this case, it was the location where she’d gotten engaged, as they’d seen proof of last night. That was vengeful spirits 101 and last night’s encounter with Evangeline had clearly not been John’s first. He opened his mouth to explain it to John but thought better of it. Obviously Evangeline’s case was not as simple as it looked and maybe John could offer some insight that he hadn’t thought of. At the very least, it wouldn’t hurt to see where he was going with this. “Looked at all the deaths reported in the local newspaper,” Bobby answered. “The only deaths matching her M.O. were the young woman who was killed last week and this young lady here. Both occurred at the bed-and-breakfast.”

John nodded, staring at the newspaper articles again. “What if,” he said slowly, as if he was still trying to work out exactly what it was he wanted to say; he looked up at Bobby. “What if the hotel isn’t the only common link?”

Bobby wasn’t following where John was going. Truth be told, he was beginning to wonder just how much John knew about the job to begin with. “What do you mean, not the common link? The _only_ thing linking these women together is the damn bed-and-breakfast.”

John ignored him and instead turned and started digging through the stacks of papers Bobby had arranged on the coffee table, scanning them then tossing them aside haphazardly when they didn’t contain whatever it was he was looking for. “Hey!” Bobby exclaimed. “I had that all organized.”

John ignored him, still flipping and discarding papers. Bobby looked around the floor with dismay. He may not look organized to anyone else but he’d spent over an hour putting those piles together so that he knew where to find exactly what he needed when he needed it.

When John finally found whatever it was he had been looking for he stared at the scrap of paper, nodded to himself and then held it out for Bobby to look at. Bobby took it and scanned it then handed it back to John. “Yeah, I’ve got this one up there,” he said, pointing to the wall.

“This one,” John said, indicating the picture of the young woman, “but not this one,” he said, pointing to a sentence about four paragraphs down. “Here, look. ‘Although there are some similarities in the cases, authorities do not believe this murder is linked to the death of another young woman in Crawford.’”

Bobby grabbed the article out of John’s hand and scanned it over, reading the paragraph in disbelief. How in the hell had he missed that?

The obvious answer, of course, was his mind wasn’t on the damn job. Every other year he’d taken the month off, allowing himself to wallow in memories, pity and whiskey. This year, it had been five years. Enough wallowing. Time to move on, move forward, let her go. And the only way Bobby could think to do that was to work. This job had seemed like the ideal candidate. Simple vengeful spirit. He could take those down in his sleep. But underestimating these things or trying to do the job when your mind wasn’t focused 100% could get you killed. Would have gotten him killed last night if John hadn’t been there, hadn’t had the rock salt handy since he’d left his in the car.

He looked up to find John looking at him triumphantly and he again resisted the urge to punch the smirk of satisfaction off his cocky face. It wasn’t John’s fault he’d missed that detail. Taking out his anger on John wasn’t going to help matters.

Although it might make him feel a little better.

He settled for crumpling up the paper and tossing it on the floor. “Looks like we need to head over to the county coroner’s office and start going through the records there. We’ll need to check the autopsy reports of the victims we know about and look for any others in the area with Evangeline’s signature.”

“I’ve got copies next door,” John said. “It was the first thing I did when I got into town. I’ll go grab them.”

“No,” Bobby said. “Sometimes in murder cases certain details are kept out of the public record so as not to compromise the investigation. We need to look at the original reports.”

Bobby picked up his duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder, ready to move out, but when he turned around again he found that John hadn’t moved from his position by the table. “And just how in the hell do you suppose we do that?” John asked. “They’re not about to just let us waltz back there and start combing through death records.”

Bobby sighed and flung his duffel bag on the bed. He hated working with rookies, even ones with the natural instincts that John had. He unzipped it, dug around for a few seconds and pulled out a leather wallet. Flipping it open he held it out for John to inspect. “They will if you’re from the FBI,” Bobby said. John inspected the badge and then looked up at Bobby. For a brief moment Bobby saw a glimpse of the uncertainty he’d expect from a rookie behind the aura of calm resolve that John had maintained since they’d met but it was gone again before he could ever be sure it was there in the first place.

“Great,” John said. “So where do I get one of those?”

Bobby tossed John the wallet. “Use this one. I’ve got another in my bag. You can get a headshot taken at the copy shop on Main Street. Just take this one apart and put your photo in place of mine. Should be ready within the hour.”

John grabbed the wallet and began picking up the papers he’d scattered all over the floor, placing them in haphazard piles on the bed. Bobby cringed. “Leave it,” he said. “Just leave it. I’ll take care of it later.”

John nodded and set down the papers he’d just picked up, then grabbed the wallet from where he’d set it on the bed and headed out the door. Bobby stepped out behind him, closed the door checking to make sure it was locked, then turned to look at John, blinking against the bright sunshine of the late May morning. “I’m going to head to the library and see if I can find anything on the death in Crawford while you’re getting your picture taken care of,” he told John. “Get a suit and meet me over there once you’re finished.”

John nodded his agreement and then turned to head into the room next door. “I’ll be leaving in the next twenty minutes,” he told Bobby.

John opened the door and disappeared inside, the excited cry of “Daddy!” from his oldest son carrying through the doorway before it shut behind him. A swell of emotion washed over Bobby, the thought that maybe he should quit this hunt after all flitting across his mind again before he dismissed it and climbed into his truck. He’d finish this hunt and if he never saw John Winchester or his boys again, so much the better.

* * *

When John found Bobby at the library he had a stack of old microfiche beside him and a list with a dozen more names and birth and death dates of possible victims for them to look into.

“Find anything?” John asked him by way of greeting, sitting down beside him. Bobby began shoving the microfiche back into its box and nodded, handing John the list. John scanned it quickly and whistled under his breath. “She’s had one hell of a busy afterlife,” he observed.

“If every one of those is linked to her, she has,” Bobby said. “We already have her pegged for two for certain but we need to check the rest of these. I just wrote down the deaths of all twenty-something females in this county in the last 60 years and figured we’d narrow it down from there.”

John nodded. “How are we going to know which ones are her if the only thing the victims have in common is their age?”

“The newest victim’s finger was cut off, just like Evangeline’s.”

John stared at him. “How do you know that? That isn’t in any of the news reports.”

Bobby smiled. “Waitress at the diner who apparently happens to be a friend of the first responders let me in on that little detail. And I’m willing to bet if we check, the other victim we know about suffered the same fate which means any of these women,” and here he paused and ruffled the papers a bit for emphasis, “who are missing fingers are definitely our spirit’s.”

“Which is where the coroner’s office comes into play,” John stated. “So let’s get out of here then.”

Bobby stood up and stretched then reached down and began stacking up the boxes of microfiche. “You got a suit?” he asked, picking up all but two of the boxes and heading toward the reference librarian’s desk. John grabbed the other two boxes and followed him.

“Got one while I was waiting for my picture to be finished.”

Bobby set the materials on the desk and nodded. “Good, let’s get going.” He strode to the front of the library, opened the door and jogged down the front steps, John following behind him.

“Hey, Bobby,” John called out. Bobby felt a small tug on his arm and he paused, turning around. Their eyes met and for another second Bobby thought he once again saw uncertainty in their depths but as before, it was gone before it fully registered. “You ever done this before?” he asked, shifting from one foot to the other. “Impersonated an FBI agent, I mean. I’ve always just used public records for my research. Isn’t this…you know. Illegal?”

Bobby stared at him, considering the question. “How do you finance your hunting?” he asked finally.

John looked taken aback. “What?”

Bobby narrowed his eyes. “I said, how do you finance your hunting, ya idjit. You don’t look like a trust fund baby to me and the money to pay for gas and those motel rooms has to come from somewhere.”

John didn’t say anything but Bobby could see the understanding register on his face. “This ain’t the first illegal thing you’ve ever done for this job, John,” Bobby said tersely, “and I can guarantee you it ain’t going to be the last. The more comfortable you get with that, the better off you’ll be. Now I can go by myself if you’re not up for it—”

He hadn’t even finished the sentence before John’s eyes were flashing with anger and he was taking a step forward, bringing his face mere inches from Bobby’s. “Let’s get something straight, Singer. This bitch is killing innocent people,” he growled. “I’m up for whatever it takes to waste her.”

Bobby met the challenge in John’s eyes without wavering. “Glad to hear it,” he responded. “Let’s get over to the coroner’s then.”

“We’ll take my car,” John stated and Bobby didn’t argue. While it didn’t exactly scream Fed, it looked more official than his old Chevy truck, anyway.

The two men stopped at a local gas station and changed into their suits before continuing to the coroner’s office. As John pulled the Impala into the lot Bobby grabbed his badge and the list of names from his duffel bag and put both into his pocket. “Since you’re new to this, you let me do the talking, understand?” he said.

John looked like he was going to argue but instead gave a terse “yes” and didn’t say anything further, just wrenched open the door of the car and climbed out. Bobby followed suit and the two men walked inside in silence.

“May I help you?” an older woman greeted them when they arrived inside.

“Yes, I’m Agent White and this is Agent Black,” Bobby said, flashing his badge and his most charming smile. “I called about an hour ago and told you we were on our way over.”

The woman glanced at their badges and then smiled at the two men. “Oh, yes. You’re looking into some older deaths in our county.” Her eyes were alight with curiosity but she maintained her professionalism and did not ask why they were interested. “I’ve got a room set up for you,” she added, standing up and motioning for them to follow her. Beside him, Bobby heard John let out the breath he’d been holding while Bobby was talking. The rookie may want him to believe that he wasn’t bothered in the slightest by just about anything but Bobby had already seen that mask slip more than once. He would be willing to bet everything he owned that underneath the calm determination he projected John Winchester was just barely holding it together.

Bobby could relate.

The woman stopped at a conference room and flipped on the light. “The files you’ve requested are on the table and there’s a pot of coffee on the stand in the corner there. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“This should be fine, thanks,” John said. The woman nodded and with another quick glance at the two men she retreated down the hallway, the sound of her heels clicking against linoleum as she made her way back to the reception desk.

Bobby looked over the piles of folders stacked on the end of the table and for the first time since he’d begun this hunt felt a slight tingle of excitement. Researching was one of his favorite aspects of the job. There was nothing quite like hunting through long-forgotten reports, looking for clues which would lead him to the creature he was after. It always sent a thrill of exhilaration through him every time he ran across an obscure reference which would be meaningless to anyone but someone with his particular skill set.

The two men sat down across from each other at the two chairs in the room and grabbed a stack each, setting to work. Two hours and three cups of coffee later, Bobby was trying to remember what it was about the research that he loved so much. The first two victims on his list turned out to be natural causes but the third name on his list was a definite match, even missing a finger like the young woman killed the previous week. He made his way carefully through her file, tapping his pencil on the table as he read and jotting down notes whenever something caught his attention. When he finished he set the file aside for further review and grabbed a fourth file. He flipped it open and began scanning the coroner’s report, his breath catching in his throat as he read the information listed on the first page. He slammed the file shut and shoved it into the pile of non-contenders, his breathing shallow. He could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead as his stomach began to twist in on itself. His heart beat wildly against his ribcage, his chest constricting with pain as a wave of emotions he hadn’t been prepared to be confronted with came crashing down over him. The only coherent thought he had was that he needed to get out of that room—and quickly—before the walls completely closed in on him.

He stood up and mumbled “I need some air,” then excused himself from the room, forcing himself to walk as he made his way down the long hallway even though he wanted more than anything to run, get in his truck and just drive, putting as much space and distance between himself and the reminders of his wife as he could. Not that he could outrun those memories. He’d been trying for five years.

The receptionist glanced up as he made his way past her and to the door, giving him a confused smile. “Everything okay, Agent White?”

Bobby didn’t answer, barely even registered she was there as he pushed open the doors and made his way out into the early afternoon sunshine. Squinting against the sun, he made his way around the corner where he finally stopped, leaning against the wall and bending forward as the world again slanted away from him and started to go dark. He closed his eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass but felt vomit rising and bent over, emptying the entire contents of his stomach onto the grass. Once he was finished, he cupped his face in his hands and finally gave himself permission to give in to the tears. Wracking sobs shook his body as he allowed the memories to flow unchecked.

Karen on the day they met, the first day of his senior year of high school. She was a transfer student, blond and beautiful. He hadn’t expected her to give him the time of day, being the gearhead that he was but she’d been just as smitten as he was. Karen in tears the day he told her that he’d received his draft notice. Karen, in tears again, only this time glowing as she accepted his proposal. Karen, in her white gown and veil, practically bouncing down the aisle toward him. One after another they hit him, each one like a knife searing into his flesh. Karen waiting on the tarmac the day he got home from Vietnam. Karen in the kitchen, making dinner, eyes dancing as she greeted him.

 _“Mind telling me what this is all about, Karen?” he asked._

 _She didn’t say anything, just nuzzled her head against his chest and sighed. “I missed you today,” she said by way of explanation._

 _He kissed the top of her head and smiled. “Yeah, okay,” he said at last, shifting a bit. “I, uh…missed you, too honey. But that’s not usually cause for you to cook dinner. Please tell me your Mom and Dad aren’t dropping by tonight.”_

 _She lifted her eyes to his and smiled. “No, they aren’t coming by tonight.”_

 _“So what’s with…” he gestured at the makings for the meal which were strewn about the kitchen—another reason he preferred if she let him do the cooking. She always turned the kitchen into a huge mess before she was done._

 _“Oh, all of this?” she said with a mysterious smile. “It’s a surprise, and no I won’t tell you now so you’d be wasting your time asking.”_

 _Bobby once again wracked his brain trying to figure out what he could be forgetting but came up blank. The oven timer went off and she pecked him again on the cheek then whirled around and went running back to the stove mumbling something along the lines of “Oh! The biscuits!”_

The sound of a car door slamming in the parking lot snapped him back to the present. After several long deep breaths the pain in his chest began to subside and his heartbeat normalized as the tears trickled off to nothing. He straightened up and used the handkerchief he always carried to wipe his face. Drawing several more deep breaths he walked inside. This time the receptionist let her professional demeanor slip a little when she saw him. “Those autopsy photos can be pretty shocking, huh?” she sympathized.

“Nothing I’ve never seen before,” Bobby said with a cough. “I just, uh…I get a little claustrophobic in those little rooms, that’s all. Can you show me the bathroom?”

“Down the hall, third door on the right,” she said, pointing. “You or your partner need more coffee or anything?”

“We’re fine,” Bobby said, his mind whirling as he tried to think of a way to explain his behavior to John which didn’t involve telling him that today was the anniversary of his wife’s death and for some reason he didn’t seem to be able to hold it together this year. He closed the door of the bathroom behind him and splashed some water on his face to wash away the telltale signs of tears. Grabbing a paper towel he began to wipe his face and as he did so he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and froze.

In his mind’s eye, he still looked the same as he had five years ago. It was as if the world had frozen at the moment that his wife took her last breath and while everyone else went on growing, moving, changing, Bobby was only going through the motions because there was no possible way that life—that he—had gone on without Karen.

And yet the man standing across from him was light years older than the man Karen had known. There were deep, dark circles under his eyes from the nights he stayed up researching in lieu of sleep. There were worry lines on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes that his wife wouldn’t recognize if she were standing across from him today. The smile—the real smile born from joy, from being alive and believing that fact was a blessing and not the curse which he now knew it to be—the one which was always so quick to the surface when Karen was alive had not been seen in years, replaced instead by the fake half-grin used to coerce reluctant witnesses to talk and willing women into his bed. But mostly it was the eyes of the man reflected in the mirror that Bobby was unable to look away from. They were heavy with the weight of all that he had seen, things that the man he had been for most of his life would never have believed.

He wondered if Karen would even recognize him anymore.

Tossing the paper towel into the garbage can he opened the door, flipped off the light and set off down the hallway toward the conference room. John was flipping through a file and making notes in his notebook when Bobby arrived back. He looked up and stared at Bobby for a moment then returned to what he was writing without saying a word. Bobby breathed a silent thank you that John seemed to understand that this was not something he wanted to talk about. Either that or John just plain wasn’t interested in knowing, either of which was just fine with Bobby. He had no problem telling John it was none of his damn business but he recognized John did have the right to ask him if he was capable of finishing the job. He’d have the same question.

Bobby sat down and grabbed the file which had triggered his panic attack in the first place and forced himself to begin reading through it. He was nearly certain she was not one of Evangeline’s victims but he had already almost gotten himself killed once because in his hurry to finish the job he had missed a potentially important detail. He wasn’t going to take that chance again. He had to be thorough.

The two men worked in silence for another hour, stopping only to refill their coffee cups. Finally Bobby flipped the last folder closed and set it on the pile of rejects in front of him. Of the half dozen deaths he’d looked at today, only two had Evangeline’s signature. John had been flipping through his notebook when Bobby finished with the final file in his stack and looked up when he heard Bobby shove it aside. “What’d you find?” he asked.

“These two,” Bobby stated. “The signature is clear. Twenty-something. Newly engaged. Ring finger cut off.”

“Three,” John said, tapping a stack in front of him. “Same signature.”

Bobby picked up the files and set them on the stack containing the two files he’d found. “I’ll get copies of these and then we’ll head back to the motel. Not much more we can do today. Might as well head out.”


	4. Chapter 4

Once back at the motel, Bobby retreated to his room. He ordered a pizza for dinner and immediately set to work, adding the information they had found today to the other on his wall. He took a break when the pizza arrived to eat. Once he had the new information taped up he began reorganizing the files which John had strewn all over the place earlier in the day so that he could readily find anything he was looking for should he need it. As long as he was working his mind remained clear, free of the images of his wife which stalked him when his hands—and his mind—were idle. The task of organizing the papers completed, Bobby lined his guns and knives along the counter then picked up each in turn, cleaning and inspecting the guns, sharpening the knives, making sure each would be ready and functioning when he needed it. He carefully repacked them one by one into the duffel bag then laid out the remaining contents onto the bed and made an inventory, noting what he had plenty of and what was getting low and he would need to restock.

When at last he looked around the motel room and could not find another excuse to stay awake, not another task which demanded his attention, he flipped the light off and laid on the bed, attempting to sleep. Before his eyes were completely closed the memories of his wife were rushing back and no matter how hard he tried to ignore them and focus instead on the details of the hunt, he felt the familiar tightness in his chest, his breathing once again becoming shallow as he fought for control. He stood up and made his way over to his duffel bag, rifling through it as the walls of the room began to close in around him. Finally his fingers found his flask and he fumbled with the lid, fighting to get it off. Succeeding at last he lifted the container to his lips and tilted it but only a few drops trickled out. “Fuck!” he shouted, throwing the empty flask against the wall. It hit with a thud and landed on the floor under the bed.

Bobby reached now for his jacket, grabbed the keys off the nightstand and headed outside. He shivered as he stepped out into the night air and his eyes snapped up, scanning the shadows automatically for any signs of a ghost before he realized it was simply the cool night air hitting the sweat which had formed on his neck and forehead that was making him feel cold. He gave a small laugh and then climbed into the truck. The engine roared to life beneath his hands and he pointed it in the direction of the bar. It was clear he wasn’t sleeping tonight without the assistance of a few shots of whiskey.

He arrived at the bar to find the now-familiar form of John Winchester already seated at the counter, a bottle of beer in front of him. Bobby felt another brief flash of anger as he wondered why in the hell John was here and not at home with his sons but dismissed the thought as none of his business as he grabbed a seat beside the other hunter. John waved at the bartender. “He’ll have a whiskey,” he said.

“Make that two,” Bobby corrected. He sat down beside John as the bartender set the glass down in front of him.

Bobby raised his glass and John responded in kind, both lifting their drinks to their mouths. Bobby downed his in one swallow, the glass making a clunking sound as he set it just a little too hard against the wood of the bar. The familiar feeling of warmth from the alcohol as it burned down his throat and pooled in his stomach began to chase away the anxiety which had seemed so overwhelming only minutes ago. It occurred to Bobby as he chased the first shot with a second that in his former station he would probably be considered an alcoholic. Before this life, he’d had a beer, maybe two in the evening to kick back, relax, celebrate a hard day’s work well done. But nowadays…now, it was a necessity. The only thing getting him through one night to the next. And the way he had it figured, just waking up every morning was a victory so if whiskey was what it took to win that battle, well…he’d damn well earned it.

“Thought you were turning in early,” John said by way of greeting.

“Couldn’t sleep,” was all Bobby offered in return.

“Yeah,” John said, standing up and motioning toward the table they’d occupied the previous night. “Know the feeling.”

“Two more,” he told the bartender. He set the drinks in front of Bobby who picked them up and followed John over to the table, setting the whiskey in front of him. John rolled the bottle of beer between his hands, not looking at Bobby, just staring at a spot in the corner.

“Something bothering you?” Bobby asked when it became clear that John wasn’t going to say what was on his mind.

John continued staring at the spot on the wall then he shoved the bottle of beer aside and heaved a sigh, leaning forward in his chair as his eyes met Bobby’s. “Why didn’t anyone else notice?” he asked at last. “So many women murdered. All this time…why didn’t anyone else catch the signature?”

Bobby sighed. He’d asked himself the same question so many times over the years. “These murders, they took place years apart. Sometimes…decades,” he answered, offering John the only explanation he’d found that made any sense to him. “Different coroner. Different town. Different investigating police force. Nobody thought to look back in old files and see if a death that occurred in their time had any similarity to deaths from twenty, thirty years before.”

John shook his head. “Don’t think I’ll ever stop being surprised at how good we are at fooling ourselves,” he said. “It’s all right there, plain as day for anyone who’s looking.”

“Nobody’s looking,” Bobby stated. “We weren’t. Not until we…” Bobby trailed off, swallowing hard, drumming his hands lightly on the table as he shifted in his seat. He didn’t want to go down that road. Not now, not after today. And sure as hell not with some asshole who thought it was somehow okay to drag your kids along on a road like this. He cleared his throat. “Well. Anyway, most of them are better off not knowing, ain’t they?”

“I don’t know. There’s so much just pure…evil out there. Seems like they deserve to know how to protect themselves.”

Bobby considered John. He was entirely too sober to have this conversation. He downed the shots in front of him and caught the bartender’s eye, raising two fingers to indicate two more drinks. He waited until the drinks were sitting in front of him and he’d finished one before speaking again. “How’d you take it?” he asked.

“Me?” John asked, taking a swig of his beer. He picked at the corner of the label and then took another drink. “Thought I’d lost my fucking mind,” he admitted. “Went to see a psychic—she told me what, uh…well, what she thought I needed to hear, I guess. Told me the truth. I took my boys to their uncle’s place and spent the next week or so drunk, trying to convince myself it wasn’t true. That she was crazy and I was just as crazy for even considering the chance she might be telling the truth.”

Bobby nodded. “And then…”

John gave a harsh laugh. “After what I saw the…,” his voice cracked a little and he took another swig of his beer. He looked up and when his eyes met Bobby’s Bobby found for the first time since he’d met John Winchester that the mask he wore to protect himself was completely gone. Reflected in their depths was an anguish that Bobby knew too well. It felt like a punch straight to Bobby’s gut. “The…night my wife died. I couldn’t not believe it.”

Bobby swallowed hard. “But if you hadn’t seen it?”

“I’d have checked myself into the nearest asylum,” John answered. “Hell, as nice as it was to find out that I hadn’t completely lost my mind there are some days…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “Some days, I wish I had.”

“Exactly,” Bobby said. “It’s not just that they don’t know. They don’t _want_ to know.”

“Maybe,” John agreed. “My boys, though…not ever going to let them be caught off guard. Not when I can help it.”

Bobby stared at John, incredulous. There was no way that anyone could think that they were doing their kids a favor telling them the truth about what’s out there. Teaching them this life. There’s no way anyone in their right mind would _choose_ this life for themselves, let alone for their children who had hope of something better, something more. It was one thing to bring his sons on the road with him, another entirely to take down the veil and expose them to the truth. He felt the familiar surge of anger whenever John mentioned his kids, white hot and burning. Tonight, however, he found he was unable to hold his tongue. “Not that it’s any of my business how you choose to raise your kids,” he said before he could stop himself. He picked up the remaining shot of whiskey and threw it back, then stared at John. “But don’t sit here and tell me you were thinking of them when you decided to head down this path. You ain’t hunting for your boys, John.”

“What in the hell do you know about it?” John asked, eyes flashing, fists clenched at his sides.

“A hell of a lot more than you think I do,” Bobby returned. “Do you have any idea how many rookies I’ve met over the years? You’re all the same, every last one of you. Hopped up on some vague idea of getting revenge on whatever it is that’s hurt your family and killing whatever you can find in the meantime but you have no idea…no fucking _clue_ what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Fuck you,” John said. “Don’t assume you know me just because you and I have the same job, Singer.”

Bobby shook his head. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that? It’s not just _you_ , you selfish son of a bitch. You’ve got two sons that you’re dragging with you into this life without one thought about what that means for them.”

“You have no idea what’s best for my family,” John countered.

“Now that may be true,” Bobby agreed, “but I sure as hell know what’s _not_ best for them and that’s being dragged from one end of this country to the other because Daddy needs revenge.”

John stood up so quickly that the chair he was sitting in toppled backward onto the floor. Bobby stood up just as quickly, watching John warily. They stood like that for a long moment, bodies tense, eyes narrowed, each one daring the other to act first, but the bartender interrupted them before the tension escalated to blows. “Take it outside, gentlemen,” the bartender said, stepping out from around the bar and making his way toward them. “I don’t need no trouble in here.”

Bobby swallowed, the muscle in his throat working hard as he lifted his gaze from John’s to look at the bartender. “No trouble here,” he said. “We’re just leaving. Aren’t we?”

John’s eyes narrowed further and he drew a deep breath but nodded, then turned and made his way out of the bar, Bobby following. Once outside, John whirled around and grabbed Bobby, shoving him hard against the wall. “Now you listen to me, Singer,” he whispered, but there was a note of warning in his voice. “You and me, we need to get two things straight if we’re going to get through this hunt without killing each other. Number one, you say another word about the choices I make for my boys, they’ll be the last words you ever say. Number two, I’m not your fucking enemy. You got that? We’re both fighting on the same side in this thing.” He released his grip on Bobby and took a step backward.

Every bone in Bobby’s body was screaming at him to take a swing at John. He wanted the altercation, wanted the excuse to take every last ounce of emotion inside him and pour it into the physical exertion of a fight with a man who he’d been aching to punch almost since the moment he’d met him. But Bobby couldn’t deny the truth in John’s words, either. Like it or not, they had agreed to a partnership for the duration of this hunt and Bobby was a professional. His personal feelings about the man needed to be set aside so he could do his job. He growled, but dropped his fist to his side.

John acknowledged the gesture with a small nod. “I don’t need to be wondering if you’ve got my back should Evangeline show up while we’re finishing this damn hunt. I really don’t give a fuck what you think about me or my right to be hunting but I do need to know that your own personal feelings for me aren’t going to affect the way you do your job.”

Bobby wondered if the man standing across from him would ever stop surprising him with the innate ability he seemed to possess of hitting just the right buttons to piss him right the fuck off. He doubted he’d ever met a man who knew just what to say to get under Bobby’s skin like this one did. He clenched his jaw and swallowed hard. “Let’s get one thing straight, _Winchester_ ,” he bit out. “As long as I’m working a hunt with you, there ain’t never cause to wonder which side I’m on.”

John stared at Bobby, appraising him. “Maybe,” he said finally. “But your head doesn’t really seem to be in the game right now. You fell apart at the coroner’s office today and then tonight you’re coming at me like I’m some enemy you need to take down. You’d better pull it together or I’m finishing this hunt alone.”

Bobby once again found he couldn’t argue with John. He had every right to be suspicious of Bobby’s ability to finish this hunt without falling apart and putting them both in danger. Truth be told, Bobby was beginning to doubt his own ability as well. He had to pull it together before he got one or both of them killed. It was as simple as that. “Fair enough,” he agreed reluctantly. “We set aside our problems with each other until after we take care of Evangeline.”

The younger hunter nodded his agreement without a word, then spun around and headed toward his car, the sound of the door slamming cutting through the now nearly-silent night air. Bobby stood for several long minutes staring after him before getting into his truck and retracing the Impala’s route to the motel.

Once inside he laid down on the bed. As he closed his eyes the sound of Sam crying once again came through the thin walls of the room. He grabbed his pillow and pulled it over his head, hoping that the baby would stop its crying so he could fall asleep.

Twenty minutes later, Sam was still screaming and Bobby found himself in the corner farthest from the shared wall of the room, tears falling down his face and gun clutched in his hand. He stroked the gun gently, checked it for bullets and then held it to his head as he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to pull the trigger. No more pain, no more guilt, no more trying to find reason in the senselessness of his wife’s death. Nothing at all except silence. The appeal of the nothingness that would surely follow the shot was stronger than it had been in years but even as he lifted his finger to rest ever so slightly against the trigger he knew he wouldn’t actually do it. If he were going to kill himself he’d have done it five years ago. He dropped the gun into his lap and waited for the sound of the baby crying to give way to the hum of the cheap refrigerator in the kitchenette.


	5. Chapter 5

The Impala was gone the next morning when he woke up and Bobby wondered if after the altercation the previous night the younger hunter had decided that Bobby was too unpredictable, that working with him was too much of a risk to justify continuing on this hunt and left town with his boys. Or, rather, he was hoping that’s what John had decided to do. He was opening the door to walk over to the motel office for a refill on his coffee when the Impala came roaring into the parking lot. John pulled the car into the spot it had occupied for the last few days and the passenger door swung open. John’s oldest, Dean, hopped out and then reached inside and pulled his little brother Sam out of the car.

John got out of the car shortly thereafter then leaned back inside and grabbed a newspaper from the passenger seat. “Just heading over to get another cup of coffee,” Bobby said to him when he had straightened up and caught Bobby’s eye.

“If you want to get started now, I can bring the boys over until the babysitter gets here,” John said. “Dean, get your brother inside,” he added. Bobby followed John’s gaze to where it had settled on the two boys and tried to ignore the familiar twist in his gut at the sight of the brothers playing. Dean ignored his father and continued pretending to be a monster and chasing Sam around. Sam squealed and backed away every time Dean got close, giggling, both boys happy in spite of the fact that “home” for the moment was an unfamiliar motel far away from anything they’d ever known in their short lives.

“No,” Bobby growled as he fought back a surge of emotion at the thought. He’d promised John last night he would remain professional and he had every intention of doing so. He just wasn’t entirely sure he could hold himself together if he was forced to be in such close proximity to John’s sons.

“Dean, I said get your brother inside,” John repeated, walking over to the door and unlocking it. Dean ignored his father, continuing to chase Sam along the sidewalk. Sam forked right, heading into the parking lot, eliciting a swear from John who jogged over and caught Sam, lifting him with one arm and grabbing Dean by the back of his shirt with his free hand. “Dean, when I tell you to get Sam for me, I need you to listen. Understand?”

Another rush of anger at John along with sympathy for the older boy came over Bobby as Dean’s face fell and he slumped into his father’s grip. “Yessir,” he mumbled.

“Good,” John said, releasing him as they reached the open doorway of the motel room. Dean scrambled inside and John set Sam down as well, watching until both boys disappeared inside before returning his gaze to Bobby. “They won’t be too much trouble,” John said.

“No!” Bobby repeated emphatically. John cocked his head, his eyes registering some mixture of confusion and anger and Bobby knew he’d better offer some sort of explanation if he wanted to avoid another argument with John right now. “Look, it wouldn’t be safe. My guns and knives are all over the place and by the time I get them put out of reach your sitter will be here anyway. Better just to wait.”

John looked like he was going to argue but nodded his head instead. “The babysitter will be here soon. I’ll be over as soon as she arrives.”

“Door’s unlocked. Let yourself in when she gets there,” Bobby replied. As he made his way over to the office he passed the same young woman who he had seen chasing Sam and Dean around in the parking lot two days before, presumably heading to take Sam and Dean off of John’s hands for the day. He ignored the surge of anger that followed as he wondered what her credentials were and why on earth John thought he could trust her with his children. He watched her knock on the door and then headed inside the office for his coffee. He doubted he’d ever understand the decisions John made when it came to his family. It was a waste of his time and resources to try.

When Bobby returned to his room he found John already inside, flipping through his notes and comparing them to the information tacked to the wall. He spun around, the hand which instinctively reached for the gun when Bobby opened the door relaxing as he realized it was just Bobby in the doorway. “Find anything?” Bobby asked, taking a sip of his coffee and leaning against the doorjamb. He’d spent entirely too long the previous night trying to find a connection between the victims who had died outside of the bed-and-breakfast and those who had been killed within its walls but nothing had jumped out at him.

“Not especially,” John said. “I keep going back to Evangeline’s obituary.”

Bobby nodded. “Go on. What do you think you’ve got?”

“Not sure,” John said. “I feel like the answer is right there, staring us in the face and we’re just not seeing it.”

“So…”

“So, she was buried, not cremated, right?”

“Can’t salt and burn ashes,” Bobby replied, resisting the impulse to call him an idjit for the moment and figuring he’d give him a chance to explain.

“And she was like all of her victims, right? Finger cut off?”

“Yes,” Bobby agreed. They’d both seen that themselves the other night when she’d shown up at the bed-and-breakfast.

“So…what happened to the finger?” John asked. “Was it buried with her?”

Bobby set down his coffee, his mind flashing back to the bones he’d found when he’d pried the lid off of the coffin. With chagrin he realized he honestly couldn’t remember. He’d been so sure that this was a straight forward case, simple salt-and-burn and he’d be in and out and onto the next town that he simply hadn’t thought about the fact that the woman’s finger might not have been buried with her.

Or even given any thought to the finger at all, really.

“No idea,” Bobby admitted at last and tried not to be irritated when John’s eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth to say what Bobby was absolutely certain was some sort of criticism of his hunting skills. “Yeah, I know I fucked it up. As you so kindly pointed out last night, my head hasn’t exactly been in the game so there’s no need to bring it up again. But I’m focused now so let’s get started tracking down what happened to that finger.”

“How?” John asked. “The original police report from her murder burned with the records office and the coroner’s office hadn’t yet been established when she was killed so we don’t have a record from there, either.”

Bobby walked over to the table by the window, glanced at each of the piles and then picked one up. Rifling through the papers he pulled out the one he was looking for and paused, reading it over. When Bobby was satisfied the paper had what he was looking for, he handed it over to John. John quirked an eyebrow but read the paper without comment. “Evangeline’s obituary,” Bobby explained.

“Yeah,” John said. “I can see that.”

“It’s a long shot,” Bobby said, taking off his baseball cap and running his hand through his hair, “but it mentions a younger sister. She was 19 when Evangeline was killed. Might still be alive.”

The corners of John’s mouth lifted slightly to form a half smile. “All right, then,” he said. “Let’s find,” he paused, consulting the paper in his hand, “Carolyn.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later John and Bobby were once again standing in line at the records office, their goal this time to determine if Carolyn Simmons was still alive. “May I help you?” the clerk asked, her voice bored as she peered at the two men standing in front of her.

John looked at her nametag and then met her eyes, flashing a charming smile. “Hi Melissa,” he said. “I’m Agent Black and this is my partner, Agent White. We’re with the FBI.” He flashed his badge and Bobby followed suit. The mask of disinterest disappeared from the woman’s face and a blush which went all the way to the roots of her hair spread across her face.

“Agents Black and…White?” she giggled.

John rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it,” he said. “I think our boss has a sense of humor, although officially that’s frowned upon in the agency.”

Melissa let out another peal of high-pitched giggles and John smiled back at her. “I’m wondering if you can get some information for us that we need for a case,” he said, continuing to work his charm on the young clerk.

Bobby watched, amazed at how quickly the man who just yesterday had been questioning the legality of his methods had become comfortable in the role. He was beginning to suspect that there was nothing John Winchester set his mind to that he did not make happen. The theory explained a lot, not the least of which was why John seemed like such a seasoned hunter most of the time in spite of his relative inexperience. He’d probably thrown himself full bore into the job and learned more in his first six months than most hunters learned in two years. He may not like the man, but Bobby felt the first whispers of respect for John come over him and take root.

While he’d been considering John’s talent at hunting, Melissa had disappeared into the back. When she returned, she held only one slip of paper, which she passed to John while leaning forward much further than she needed to, providing him with a view of her cleavage. John didn’t hide the long glance downward as he took the paper from her and the redness in the woman’s face deepened. “Thank you for your assistance,” John said.

Melissa dropped her gaze. “Maybe I’ll uh…see you around?” she said hopefully.

“I’d certainly like that,” John agreed, folding up the paper and tucking it into his pocket. “But for the moment, duty calls.” He turned and walked out of the building, Bobby following one step behind.

“Well?” Bobby asked when they got outside.

John pulled out the piece of paper and handed it to Bobby as he opened the door of the Impala and slid inside. “No death certificate on file, last known address was from the DMV but her license lapsed five years ago.”

“Well, if that’s the best we can do, it’s the best we can do,” Bobby said, glancing at the paper. “It gives us a place to start at least.”

* * * 

After a quick stop for coffee and directions, the two men headed out to the address they’d found for Carolyn. The drive took them past the bed-and-breakfast on the outskirts of town and the cemetery where Evangeline was buried. After about fifteen minutes during which neither man said a word, each lost in his own thoughts, John slowed the car and turned up a winding dirt driveway. Toward the end of the driveway was a simple white two story farmhouse with an Oldsmobile parked out front. John shifted the car into park and they climbed out and made their way up the steps of the wraparound front porch. Bobby took the lead this time, knocking a little louder than was probably necessary on the front door.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” a voice inside called and a moment later the door opened to reveal a petite white-haired woman. “Can I help you two gentlemen?” she drawled.

“I’m Agent White,” Bobby said, pulling out his badge and flipping it open for her to inspect. Out of the corner of his eye he could see John doing the same. “This is Agent Black. We’re looking for Carolyn Simmons?”

She inspected both badges closely and then considered Bobby. “I may not have been called that for over fifty years, but that’s me. I’m Carolyn James now, but Simmons was my maiden name. What are you looking for me for?”

“We’re just wondering if we could ask you some questions about your sister, Evangeline,” John stated.

Carolyn cocked her head to the side, her eyes peering into John’s. “Well now,” she said. “I always knew the federal government was slow on the uptake but this may be a new record. My sister was murdered over 60 years ago, Mr. Black.”

Bobby couldn’t help but smile. He liked Carolyn Simmons—Carolyn James—already. She was sharp as a tack, which also boded well for her being able to provide them with the information they would need to make sure that her sister was put to rest, for good this time. “Yes ma’am,” Bobby agreed. “We’re aware of that fact.”

“Then you’re also aware that her ex-fiancé is the one who killed her and he died in prison ten years ago?” Bobby and John nodded in unison. “So forgive me, but I have to ask why the FBI is suddenly interested in my sister’s death after all of these years?”

“If you’ll give us a few moments of your time Mrs. James,” John said, “we’d be happy to explain it to you.”

“May I see those badges again?” she asked. John and Bobby both obliged and she again inspected each one. “Come on inside,” she said when she was satisfied, waving them in. She led them down a hall and into a seating room that was decorated exactly as Bobby would have expected the living room of an octogenarian to be. The room was full of knick knacks and lace doilies and pictures ranging from antique looking to modern day polaroids of what he guessed were probably her great grandchildren. She motioned for them to sit on the floral print couch. “Let me get you gentlemen some tea,” she said in such a way that neither Bobby nor John put up an argument, just stayed perched on the uncomfortable couch until she arrived with a silver tray which held a teapot and three tea cups.

She set the tray down on the table, poured John and Bobby each a cup and handed it to them before pouring herself some tea as well, taking a long sip and peering expectantly at both men, waiting. Bobby and John each took a sip of their own tea, Bobby trying not to cringe as the bitter hot liquid washed over his lips and down his throat. He couldn’t live without his coffee but tea…that was another matter entirely. He couldn’t stand the taste, but he somehow got the very clear picture that Carolyn would consider it an insult if he declined her hospitality and so he smiled his approval. She returned his smile and then leaned toward them on her own chair. “Now,” she said. “Why is the FBI interested in my sister?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the recent murder in town, ma’am,” Bobby began. Carolyn nodded her agreement. “It bears some striking similarities to your sister’s death.”

Carolyn set her cup of tea down and cocked her head. “And yet, my sister’s killer has been dead ten years,” she said. “So unless you happen to believe a ghost is involved, I can’t see what help I might be.”

Bobby and John both shifted slightly on the couch at Carolyn’s mention of the involvement of a ghost. “I’m sure this won’t make a lot of sense to you, Mrs. James,” Bobby agreed, “but I assure you any answers you can provide us would help us tremendously. Please just bear with us. From our understanding, your sister’s fiancé cut her ring finger off in an attempt to remove her engagement ring. Do you know what happened to your sister’s finger?”

Not taking her eyes off the two men, Carolyn picked up her tea cup and took another deliberate sip of the hot liquid. “Of course I’m happy to help in any way that I can,” she agreed, “but I’d appreciate it if you boys stopped pretending you were with the FBI and told me why you’re really here.”


	6. Chapter 6

John and Bobby exchanged glances, Bobby answering John’s silent question with the only possible answer—admit to the truth. Clearly the woman knew something about what was going on so it was best to level with her and see what came of it. John nodded slightly and turned back to Carolyn. “Fair enough,” John said. He considered Carolyn for a long moment. “How long have you been seeing your sister around, Mrs. James?”

Carolyn smiled, her entire face crinkling up with the movement. “There,” she said. “That’s better. We’ll be able to get at what you really want to know a lot easier this way, won’t we?” She took a sip of her tea and then sat back in her chair. “The answer to your question, Agent White, is that it was destroyed. Burned by the state with all the other evidence after her killer was convicted and sent to prison.”

Bobby groaned inwardly. So much for the finger being the bit of human remains that they were looking for. It appeared they were back to square one. But Carolyn was still talking, so Bobby took another sip of his tea, managed not to grimace, and sat forward to find out what she knew about her sister’s ghost.

“And the answer to _your_ question, Agent Black, is that I haven’t seen her—not in years. But I used to see her all the time. She’d visit me when our parents were asleep. At first, I thought I was dreaming but then I started seeing her while I was still awake. Everywhere I went, I’d look up and catch a glimpse of her, just a glimpse, smiling at me.”

Carolyn became quiet, her eyes distant as if focused on the long ago image of her sister. She looked down at her tea cup and then looked up again. When she spoke next, her voice was quiet and Bobby had to lean forward to hear her. “Nobody believed me, of course. They all thought I was crazy. Wasn’t long before I began to doubt it, too. Thought I must be crazy. Ghosts didn’t exist.”

“So what did you do?” Bobby asked.

“Only thing I could do if I wanted to keep my freedom. Back then they didn’t treat mental patients the way they do today, you know. Just locked you up to protect society. I started ignoring her. I had my own life to live, you see. I missed her terribly, but holding onto her wasn’t going to bring her back. I thought maybe if I moved on with my life she would…you know. Move on, too.”

“But she didn’t, did she?” Bobby asked.

“No. She only got more agitated. When I’d seen her around before, she was always smiling at me like she was happy to see me. But after I stopped responding to her, she looked angry whenever I saw her. I think she was upset about the fact that I wasn’t paying attention to her anymore. Then she started to try to force me to pay attention. It started off small: pieces of jewelry being moved around, chairs rocking. You know, the classic signs of a haunting. And then…”

Carolyn broke off, dropping her eyes to her hands and drawing a shaky breath. It was clear to Bobby that she was trying not to cry. “And then she got violent. I woke up in the middle of the night one night to find her standing over me. She was holding a lamp and she hurled it at me. I knew at that point I had to do something, had to force her to leave me alone.”

“You said you haven’t seen her in years,” John said. “So how did you force her away?”

“I did the only thing I could figure to do,” she said. “I got rid of the only piece of her that I still had.”

Bobby was intrigued now. “What do you mean by ‘piece of her’?”

“My parents…didn’t deal well with my sister’s death. They asked the county to burn everything. But I thought, well…that ring, that stupid engagement ring. It was important to her. She died trying to keep it, after all. So I asked the sheriff if I could have it after the trial was over.”

Something clicked in Bobby’s head when Carolyn mentioned the ring and he turned his gaze toward John who had clearly made the same connection. He was leaning forward in his seat now, something akin to excitement in his eyes. “Can you tell us what you did with the ring, Carolyn?”

She raised her chin slightly in defiance, as if challenging John and Bobby to condemn her for the choice she had made. “I sold it to a pawn broker in Crawford then took the money and burned it.”

“When did you sell it?” Bobby asked.

“Three years after Evie was killed,” Carolyn mumbled. She was looking at her hands now. “Almost exactly.”

Bobby did the math in his head, confirming that the first death had occurred right around that time.

“Is it…is it possible that she’s somehow responsible for the death of that young woman in town?” Carolyn asked.

Bobby shifted in his seat. “Even if she is,” he said, considering each word carefully, “you aren’t. You couldn’t have known what would happen to her after you sold the ring.”

Carolyn drew in another shaky breath and this time when she raised her eyes again they were filled with tears. “She wasn’t the first. There was at least one other, over in Crawford, shortly after I sold the ring.”

“We know,” John said. “There were—”

“Do you remember what the ring looked like?” Bobby interrupted. He had the feeling John was going to tell her just exactly how many deaths they suspected were linked to her sister and that was a burden that Carolyn did not need to carry. She had already carried this one long enough.

Carolyn set aside her teacup and stood up. “Even better,” she said. “I’ve got a photograph of my sister when she’s wearing it.”

Carolyn disappeared down the hallway. After the sound of her footsteps on the old wooden floor had faded Bobby turned to John. “She was wearing her ring when her fiancé severed her finger. There’s probably some bit of blood or skin caught in the setting. With the significance of the ring to Evangeline there wouldn’t need to be much of her remains at all to keep her earthbound. I’ll bet if we look we’ll find that every single one of the victims was the unfortunate recipient of Evangeline’s precious engagement ring,” he said.

“And the two who were killed at the bed-and-breakfast just happened to get engaged there,” John added. “The connection was just a coincidence. The ring was the real link all along.”

“So we need to destroy the bit of Evangeline that’s still on that ring. That should put her to rest” Bobby was saying as the sound of Carolyn’s footsteps as she made her way back to the living room met their ears.

“Here,” she said, handing them a ripped black and white photograph. “My parents burned the rest,” she said. “It was like they thought if they just got rid of every trace of her, maybe the pain would go, too. This is a picture she gave to me. It was of her and her fiancé. I ripped him out after she died but I couldn’t bring myself to throw away the picture.”

Bobby took the picture and looked it over then handed it to John who also took a look. “Do you happen to have a magnifying glass?” he asked her. “I’d like to get a better look at the ring.”

Evangeline picked up a magnifying glass that was lying on a book on the end table next to her. “Here,” she said, offering it to John.

John took it and inspected the picture, his face whitening slightly. He set the magnifying glass on the coffee table in front of him but didn’t explain his reaction to Bobby, just handed the photo back to Carolyn. “Thanks for your help, Carolyn,” was all he said. The two men stood up and made their way to the front door, Carolyn following.

“She wasn’t a bad person, you know,” Carolyn said desperately, as if seeking their confirmation.

“No,” Bobby said. “I’m sure she wasn’t. But we’d all go a little mad if we were stuck on Earth with no one to talk to but ourselves.”

When Bobby turned from Carolyn to take his leave he saw that John was already out the door and to the car, climbing inside. “What will you do now?” Carolyn asked.

“Find the ring,” Bobby said as John hit the horn. “Salt and burn it.”

Carolyn’s face tightened a little. “And that will…that should…give her rest?”

“It should put your sister to rest, yes,” Bobby agreed as John hit the horn again. “Take care, ma’am.”

Carolyn nodded but didn’t say anything as Bobby turned and made his way down the steps and over to the car. Once inside he turned to John. “I guess our next step is hunting down that ring. She said the pawnshop was over in Crawford. If it’s still in business we may—”

“No need,” John said, throwing the car into drive and gunning the gas as they peeled quickly down the driveway and back onto the highway.

“No need?” Bobby asked, perplexed. “We’ve got to find that ring.”

“I already found it,” John answered. “I just didn’t realize what it was.”

Bobby searched his mind for some reference to the ring and its whereabouts in the research that they had compiled but couldn’t remember any mention of it. He looked over at John who was gripping the steering wheel tightly, pushing the car faster as they sped toward town. “Back at the bed-and-breakfast,” John answered the unasked question.

Bobby’s look of confusion was replaced with understanding as the memory of the night he had first encountered John Winchester replayed in his mind. “You had just picked the ring up when she arrived,” Bobby said. “That’s what you were holding.”

“Yes,” John agreed. “Didn’t even make the connection—found it in the lobby, not in the room where the woman was killed. She must have sensed that we were trying to destroy her and when I had the ring…”

“She tried to stop us,” Bobby filled in. “So where is it? What did you do with it?”

“In my room, back at the motel,” he said.

Somewhere inside of Bobby, a feeling of dread took root and began to grow. “You stupid son of a bitch,” he growled fighting off the panic which was beginning to rise into his chest. Now was not the time for him to fall apart.

“I didn’t know,” he repeated. “I was going to pawn it. I needed the money. Low on ammo. You don’t think she’ll…” He trailed off and swallowed hard, the knuckles in his hands going white against the steering wheel as he tightened his grip.

“Your boys will be fine,” Bobby said, entirely for his own reassurance. He was well beyond giving one good goddamn about John by this point. Anything that happened to him, as far as Bobby was concerned, was well-deserved but those boys… He couldn’t think about that now, about what might happen. He had to stay focused. The only thing that mattered right now was getting back to the motel and destroying the ring before Evangeline showed up again. “They aren’t any threat to her like we are. And they don’t fit her victim profile,” he added. He was pretty certain, anyway.

Still, he didn’t say a word when John pressed the gas pedal harder, coaxing the Impala even faster as they made their way toward town.

* * *

The sun was setting when at last they arrived back at the motel. The early evening air was cool against Bobby’s skin as he wrenched open the door and stood listening for any signs of trouble. As John climbed out of the car, a scream pierced the quiet evening. John’s panicked gaze met Bobby’s and without a word both men ran to the back of the car. John opened the trunk and threw some salt and a gun at Bobby who checked it for bullets and grabbed an iron rod as well. Another loud scream echoed from John’s room as the men approached. Bobby tried the door but it was locked so John backed up and began kicking at it. His first kick weakened it and a second kick busted it partially open. Finally on the third kick the door flew inward and the two men rushed inside.

In the second it took for Bobby’s eyes to adjust to the dim light of the motel room he felt himself being flung backwards. His head hit the wall as he slammed into it and the room went momentarily black. When his head cleared and he could see again he realized he’d lost his grip on the salt container when he’d hit the wall and it had landed on the floor between the two beds, out of his reach. He struggled against the force of the ghost’s presence but found he couldn’t move. He blinked and looked around, trying to get a grip on the situation. The two boys were sitting on the bed, Dean’s arms around Sam, pressing his brother’s face gently against his shoulder to shield his eyes.

Once he was sure that the boys were safe, or at least as safe as they could be in this scenario, he turned his attention back to Evangeline as his mind raced, trying to think of a way to get themselves out of this mess. Evangeline had the babysitter’s hand pressed against the wall and was raising her knife.

John was nearest the babysitter, having been flung against the far wall of the room. “The ring!” he shouted. “Where’s the ring?”

Evangeline dropped the babysitter's hand and turned to face John. When she opened her mouth, the same incoherent sounds Bobby had heard at the bed-and-breakfast came out as she moved across the room toward him. “The ring!” John shouted again, but the young woman was too scared to do anything other than scream.

Her petrified gaze met Bobby’s and he opened his mouth to repeat what John was saying when a strangled roar came from Evangeline and she disappeared. It took Bobby a minute to figure out what was going on but as soon as his eyes landed on Dean the answer became clear. At some point he must have gotten down from the bed because he was now standing on the floor between the two beds, Sam behind him, holding Bobby’s container of salt, a proud smile lighting up his face. “I fought that monster just like you taught me, Daddy!” he exclaimed.

John glanced at his son, disbelief mingling with pride in his eyes but there was no time at the moment for congratulations. Evangeline might be gone but she would be back. He turned to the babysitter who was wide-eyed and shaking in the corner of the room. “What the hell was that thing?” she asked.

John didn’t answer. “The ring,” he said. “Where’s the ring?”

“I wasn’t trying to steal it,” she said defensively. “The boys knocked your bag down. It fell out. I was just putting it back when—”

“I don’t give a fuck WHY you had it,” John growled. “I need it. Now.”

He held out his hand as the babysitter reached into her pocket and withdrew the object of discussion. The diamond glinted in the soft light of the motel room and then the air cooled. “Give me the ring!” Bobby demanded and without hesitating John tossed it across the room. Bobby caught it and then picked up the iron rod he’d dropped when Evangeline had slammed him against the wall. “Here!” he said, tossing it at John. John caught it just as Evangeline appeared in front of him and he swung at her. She shrieked again and disappeared.

“Accelerant and salt in the trunk,” John yelled as Bobby grabbed the garbage can and headed outside. He paused at the car long enough to grab the two items he needed out of the back and then running further out into the center of the parking lot he threw the ring into the can, poured on the salt and lighter fluid and pulled the lighter out of his pocket. Without even pausing to say the Lord’s prayer this time he flicked the lighter and tossed it into the can which instantly lit up. He heard an unholy shriek and looked back toward the room. Through the doorway he could see Evangeline’s figure lit up in flames as the shriek faded and then disappeared completely. Evangeline was finally at rest.


	7. Chapter 7

Bobby watched the flames lick the sides of the trash can for a minute before turning and walking back to the the trunk of John’s car, throwing the lighter fluid and salt inside. The sound of Sam’s cries drew his attention back to the room and he glanced inside. The babysitter was sitting on a chair, wide-eyed with shock. John was on the bed, Sam cradled against his chest, Dean on the floor beside him patting Sam’s back and shushing him. After he had calmed Sam, he handed him to the babysitter, said something to her and made his way outside to where Bobby was standing beside the Impala. “I just want to thank you—” he began, holding his hand out for Bobby to shake.

Fury, hot and blinding, exploded over Bobby at John’s words. “You don’t deserve those boys,” he said, his voice low, dangerous.

The look of gratitude disappeared from John’s face in an instant, his eyes hard and glinting dangerously. Before Bobby could react, John took a swing, his fist connecting with Bobby’s cheek and the corner of his mouth. Pain shot through his jaw, reverberating in his ears and he shook his head, trying to clear it. He curled his hand into a fist and connected with John’s stomach, the shot causing the other man to gasp and double over slightly.

“It’s none of your goddamn business,” John growled, sucking in air as he tried to catch his breath.

“The hell it’s not my business!” Bobby shouted. “You nearly got your boys killed and for what? Revenge? It isn’t worth it. Trust me. Take your boys and go home.”

Bobby was ready for John’s punch this time when it came. He avoided it and launched a counter shot, his fist connecting with John’s chin. The younger hunter stumbled backwards a step but didn’t miss a beat. His next jab hit Bobby in the gut and he gasped as the air left his body.

“You don’t know a fucking thing about what we’ve been through,” John snarled.

Bobby dodged his next punch and grabbed his arm. Spinning him around, he pinned him against the car and then leaned forward so that his lips were right next to John’s ear. When he spoke, his voice was low and controlled. “I know that if it were me, there is no way I’d be fighting in the parking lot of a motel in some hell-hole of a town with someone I couldn’t give a shit less about. Not when I had two boys who need a home.”

John struggled underneath Bobby’s grip but Bobby kept him pinned against the car. “You think you’re so different from me, Singer? You stand there, puffed up on your own self-righteousness like you’re in this for all those lives you saved, but the truth is you and me? We’re both out here for the same reason.”

Bobby cocked his fist and spun John around. He swung, connecting with John’s mouth and jaw and then released him with a shove. “Fuck you, Winchester,” was all he said.

John leaned down, breathing heavy. When he stood upright again he reached up and rubbed his jaw. He took a step, then another and Bobby reacted in kind, the two men circling each other slowly, each waiting for the other to make the next move. “There’s only one fucking thing that keeps you from being completely consumed by the thoughts of your wife like you almost were yesterday,” John said. He spat out the blood which had pooled on the corner of his mouth, considering Bobby as if trying to gauge if he was going to swing again.

The anger which had receded to a dull rumble came roaring back with John’s words and deep inside, something snapped inside of Bobby. He found himself acutely aware of every sensation—the cool night air against his skin felt almost icy in its intensity, the sound of the crickets was exaggerated, and when John shifted position, Bobby could hear each piece of gravel underneath his feet crunching, grinding into the dirt below it. And yet, his thoughts were a complete blur. The tenuous hold he had on reason broke completely and with a roar he launched himself at John.

The ensuing moments were a haze as he took shot after shot at John, trying to get the upper hand and take down the other hunter but Bobby wasn’t the only one trained in hand-to-hand combat. Every time Bobby connected with some part of John, John answered, his fists sending stabbing pain shooting across Bobby’s jaw and through his ribs, stealing his breath. Throbbing pain along with darkening of his vision let him know that John had landed a shot to his right eye and in the next second he felt John’s leg sweeping his foot. He ended up on his stomach on the ground, arm twisted behind him and John’s knee in his back. The fall had knocked the air completely from his lungs and he gasped even as he struggled against John’s hold.

John leaned down so that his lips were right next to Bobby’s ear, his breath hot against Bobby’s neck. “It sure as hell isn’t thinking of the next little boy you’ll rescue from a changeling or the next woman you’ll save from a vampire that keeps you going when all you want to do is pick up a fucking gun and put a bullet through your head, is it? You’re out for revenge, pure and simple. Same as me,” John stated.

John released Bobby’s arms and Bobby grunted as John shoved his knee further into his back before standing up. Bobby lay on the ground for a second, not moving. The anger had receded, in its place a throbbing rawness he couldn’t quite recognize but which was almost overwhelming in its intensity. He suspected the emotion was the paralyzing grief that he had spent all of these years trying to escape, using first the thought of revenge and then good old-fashioned self-righteous anger at the evil which threatened other families to fuel him. John Winchester wasn’t wrong about that. His cause was no more noble, no more just. And no more futile.

He’d long ago exorcised the demon responsible for his wife’s death, sending it back to Hell, but still he’d kept going, kept hunting, leaving a trail paved with the bodies of who knew how many creatures scattered along the road behind him. As if by killing every last evil thing he could find he could somehow turn back time, bring his wife back. And yet… every child he saved, every family that he prevented from knowing the same pain that he knew, none of it had done a damn thing. None of it had brought Karen back and it hadn’t even been enough to stop the scab from being ripped off and the gaping emptiness from the wound of his wife’s death to all but consume him. He looked up at John, dazed, his head still spinning, breathing heavy. He closed his eyes and once again his mind was filled with the image of his wife, shining, radiant, bursting with the secret she carried.

 _Bobby watched as she leaned over to pull the biscuits out of the oven, his thoughts once again returning to the pleasant vision he’d had earlier of kissing her soft neck and exploring her curves with his hands. He walked over to where she was standing, using a spatula to take the biscuits off the pan and set them into a bread bowl. He wrapped his hands around her waist and nuzzled her neck. “You look radiant today,” he said. “Not sure what it is, but I swear you’re glowing.”_

 _She smiled then set down the spatula and turned around. Reaching up, she nestled her fingers in his hair, pulled his lips to hers for a quick kiss and then gave him a playful push. “Quit distracting me, I’m going to burn something. Get out of here. Go find a newspaper to read or something.”_

 _Bobby grumbled but pecked her on the forehead and did as he was told. It’d been a long day,anyway. “Think I’ll grab a quick shower,” he said._

 _When he had himself cleaned up and dressed in a new pair of jeans and a t-shirt he headed back downstairs to find Karen lighting the candles she had set out on the table. As he walked closer he realized that the candles she was using were the same ones that they had used during their wedding ceremony. Likewise, she had set out the champagne glasses that they had toasted with at their wedding reception. He glanced at her, but she didn’t say anything, just motioned her hand and Bobby noticed for the first time the cake sitting on the table. She had pulled out their wedding cake topper and put that on top, but something was different about it. Walking over to the cake for a closer look he saw that nuzzled between their bride and groom figurines was a tiny little baby swaddled in a blanket. His mind reeling, he glanced up for confirmation, the question he had been asking all night finally answered._

 _“Really?” was all he managed to choke out as a wave of emotion came over him and he had to fight back the tears that he found were threatening._

 _Karen nodded, looking nervous and vulnerable as she shifted slightly from one foot to the other, her hands playing with the emerald necklace he’d bought her for their last anniversary. He stared at her for another long second and then, before he even knew what he was doing, crossed the room and enveloped her in his arms. Suddenly the words came tumbling out, but he was unable to make them make sense. “When did you…how long have you…we’re going to have a baby?” He picked her up and spun her around and finally the nerves left her face as she smiled at him, the radiance from earlier in the evening returning._

 _“So you’re happy, then?” she whispered and Bobby saw his own tears reflected in her eyes. He didn’t say a word, just kissed her again._

“She was pregnant,” he whispered.

John had been in the middle of saying something that Bobby hadn’t heard a single word of but he broke off as soon as Bobby spoke. “So that’s why the file yesterday…the pregnant woman’s autopsy report,” John said. His eyes widened slightly, understanding dawning as sympathy flashed in their depths. Bobby bristled at the sympathy. That was half the reason he’d never told a soul about his wife’s pregnancy. He didn’t need pity; didn’t want it. It was for the weak and he’d be goddamned if anyone thought he was in need of their fucking pity. He wasn’t sure why he was talking about it now either, truth be told. Why John, why here, why after all this time? Except that it suddenly seemed important to acknowledge it, suddenly seemed the most important thing in the world that someone other than he knew that he had just found out that he was going to be a father when his wife had been stolen from him, their child lost with her.

Bobby cleared his throat, shifted position so he was sitting up, knees drawn up in front of him, arms resting against his knees. John held down a hand as though offering to help him up but Bobby ignored him. He picked up some gravel and rolled it around in his hands before tossing it aside and pushing himself to his feet.

“She had just told me,” Bobby explained. “Maybe…a month before. We had cleaned out the spare bedroom and were working on the nursery. I remember…she wanted purple. Purple because…” He trailed off. Had there ever been a time that he cheered for a football team? When the outcome of the playoffs had seemed like the most important thing in the world? It had been so long since he’d allowed himself to access those memories. Thinking of them now felt more like peeking inside someone else’s life. They couldn’t possibly be his. Rock salt and silver bullets and copper knives, that was his life, his real life. Not the Vikings and whether they might manage not to choke in the post-season. “Purple because she was…we were Vikings fans and she thought we couldn’t start the baby too soon. And it worked for a boy or a girl, she said. I had just gone to the hardware store and picked up the paint that morning. She wasn’t there when I got back and I just thought she was out with some of her girlfriends. I promised her I’d start painting that afternoon but thought I’d have a little nap on the couch first.”

He looked up, finally allowing his eyes to meet John’s but John wasn’t looking at him, just staring at the feeble light from the lamp behind them in the corner of the parking lot which did almost nothing to dispel the heavy shadows of the cloudy night. “Anyway, woke up and she was standing over me, only…it wasn’t her.”

“How do you know?” John asked, startling Bobby. He had returned his gaze to Bobby’s and the look of pity was gone now, replaced with what Bobby suspected was curiosity.

Bobby found he felt unsettled by John’s sudden interest in the details of the day his wife had died but answered the question nonetheless. “Her eyes,” he explained. “My Karen—she had the most beautiful blue eves I ever saw and the bitch standing over me, she may have had Karen’s hair and Karen’s mouth and Karen’s body but those eyes were not my wife. They were black as coal, inhuman.” He swallowed hard and adjusted his baseball cap. “Demon, or so I came to find out, though I didn’t know it at the time.”

John nodded. “And the demon that took your wife…”

“Took my child,” Bobby answered. He looked at his feet, kicked at the ground a little. “Anyway, point is, you’re right. I’m in this godforsaken town tonight because the only thing keeping me alive, keeping me going is the thought of revenge—not just against the demon that killed my wife but against every last one of those evil sons of bitches that operate in darkness and never give their victims a fighting chance. I reckon I’d be dead from alcohol or a bullet if I didn’t have that to drive me. But I can tell you this.” Here he paused and lifted his eyes to John’s again, boring into them. “If my child had made it, I wouldn’t need revenge to keep me alive. I’d have my baby. I may not know whether it was a girl or a boy. I may never have held it in my arms, but I know for goddamned certain that taking care of that child and raising it right would be enough to keep me going. I wouldn’t need any of this and I sure as hell wouldn’t be selling myself some fairytale that I was somehow _protecting_ my kid by exposing it to every type of darkness this earth possesses.”

John again clenched his hands into fists at his sides and he took a step toward Bobby, though he didn’t take a swing this time. “I’m sorry about your wife, Bobby. And I’m more sorry than you can know that you lost your child,” John said and Bobby could tell that the sentiment was genuine even though there was still an edge of anger in John’s voice. “But don’t make the mistake of thinking you have the first clue why I’ve made the choices I’ve made.”

“So what is it then?” Bobby asked. “If it isn’t revenge, why are you out here with your boys instead of finding some good woman to marry and raise your family with?”

John didn’t say anything immediately, allowing the silence to stretch between them and it was clear he was considering how, or even whether, to answer Bobby’s question. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the sound of Sam’s cries cut through the night and John sighed in either relief or frustration, Bobby couldn’t tell which. He ran a hand through his hair. “That’s a conversation for another time,” he said at last. “I need to pay my babysitter and make sure the boys are okay.” He spun around and headed back to his room, disappearing inside without so much as another glance at Bobby.

Bobby licked his lips, the taste of blood from the cut left by John’s punches bitter on his tongue and he spat in the direction in which John had retreated. His right hand was throbbing and he held it up to inspect it. There was dried blood on his fingers from two of his knuckles which had split open while he’d been exchanging punches with John. There was something about the sight of his own blood against his skin and the throbbing in his jaw that he found almost calming. He flexed his fingers a few times to make sure that he hadn’t dislocated any fingers or broken any bones and then wiped the blood against his jeans and rubbed his jaw before walking over to his own room. As he reached his door the babysitter emerged from John’s room and ran toward the office without so much as acknowledging his presence. He watched her for a split second, not envying her the days that stretched before her in which she had to come to terms with either the fact that ghosts were real or that she was crazy, and then went into his room and fell into his bed to attempt sleep.

* * *

Bobby had no idea how much time had passed since he’d lain down when he bolted upright in bed, his heart racing as he looked around the room, trying to figure out what had woken him up. The sound of a loud knock again split the silence in the room and, cussing, he glanced at his clock. It was after midnight. Why was someone pounding on his door at 12:45 in the morning? He padded over to the door and drew aside the curtain. John Winchester was just visible in the dim light outside and he cussed again but unlocked the door and waved the other hunter inside.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” John said.

“Just my sleep,” Bobby said. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

John held up a six pack of beer. “I owe you a drink,” he said, walking past Bobby and inside the room. “And since I no longer have a babysitter, we can’t go to the bar so I figured I’d bring the drink to you.” He set the alcohol on the table and sat down.

“Did I mention I was sleeping?” Bobby asked, although he had to admit that a cold beer sounded pretty damn good right about now.

John opened one of the bottles. “Doesn’t look like it to me,” he said, holding the bottle out toward Bobby. “And as long as you’re awake, you might as well have a beer.”

Bobby mumbled under his breath something about inconsiderate bastards but sat down beside John anyway and grabbed the beer out of John’s hand. John smiled, the first real one Bobby had seen since they had met, then popped the top off his own beer and took a swig. The two men drank in silence for a few minutes before Bobby set his beer down and gazed at John, trying to figure out why he was really there. The expression on John’s face was unreadable, however, and the only thing Bobby was completely certain about was that John wanted something besides just a drink.

“How long are we going to sit here before you tell me why you’re really here?” Bobby said at last.

John laughed. “That obvious, huh?” Bobby nodded. John cleared his throat. “All right then. You were right, what you said about me looking for revenge. It’s pretty obvious I am, right? And you’re the first hunter I’ve met. Wasn’t even sure there were any others until I met you, actually, and you seem to know your stuff so I was hoping you would help me.”

Bobby shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong, John. I feel for you. I do. But I don’t get myself involved in revenge hunts. Those are the surest way to guarantee yourself an early grave, know what I mean?”

John lowered his gaze again and stared at his fingers. “I wouldn’t be asking you if this were just about revenge, Bobby,” he said. “I’m not even sure I’d be here if I was just out for revenge. I’d probably be following your suggestion to go back home, find a nice woman to marry and raise my children. But like I told you back at the bar, part of the reason I’m doing this is to protect my boys—so that they aren’t ever caught unaware by one of these sons of bitches. Thing is, when I found my wife, she was in my son’s room.” John paused and Bobby was certain he was trying to fight off tears. “And the thing that killed my wife, I think it might have done something to Sammy.” He drew a deep breath and when he raised his eyes again they were blazing with a fierceness Bobby had never seen in them before. “I have to find it so I can figure out what it was and if my son is in danger.”

Bobby felt his chest tighten with each word John spoke, finding he could no longer take issue with John bringing his children on the road with him. If it was his child and he harbored the suspicions John had, he’d be doing exactly the same thing. Bobby tapped his fingers on the side of his bottle. “What makes you think I can help you?” he said at last.

“You said the thing that killed your wife—you knew it wasn’t her because its eyes were black, right?”

“Right,” Bobby agreed.

“I did some interviews after my wife died. One of them was an old friend of Mary’s. She mentioned a creature that looked like a human—like her doctor but she said his eyes glowed an unholy shade of yellow,” John explained. “Isn’t there at least a chance it could be the same thing? I don’t know if it’s what killed her but it’s a place to start looking, anyway.”

Bobby took another drink of his beer and then pushed it aside, leaning back in his chair to consider John. The fierce determination was still blazing in his eyes but there was something else there as well. Desperation, maybe. Fear. Fear that Bobby would say no and he would once again be on his own in trying to figure out what the hell had happened the night his wife died.

Bobby knew that desperation, that fear intimately and something akin to sympathy stirred inside of him. He wanted to help John, help those boys who he had developed such a fierce protective streak over in the last few days. His mind made up, he stood up and brought the bottle to his lips for another long pull then walked over to the nightstand and scribbled something on the pad of paper sitting there. “Never heard of a demon with yellow eyes,” he said at last, turning around to face John. “Could be, though. Could be something else. Hard to say without more research. Here’s my number at home,” he said, handing John the paper. “Any time you need someone to watch those boys while you’re on a hunt, you let me know. I’d be happy to take care of them if I’m not on the road. It’s safer than having some random maid at a hotel without the first clue about how to fight a ghost take care of them, anyway, and I’ve got the room.”

“I appreciate it,” he said. “But will you help me with—”

“I’ll help you,” Bobby said, cutting him off. He took another swig of his beer. “Not with getting revenge on this thing. You’re on your own if you decide to go down that path, but…I’ll help you figure out what it was doing in Sam’s room that night. You deserve at least that peace of mind, I reckon. Sam too.”

John stood up and folded the piece of paper with Bobby’s number on it then put it into his shirt pocket. “I better be getting back to my boys,” he said, standing up and walking over to the door. He opened it and then paused in the doorway, turning to face Bobby. “Thanks for everything.”

“Don’t be thanking me yet,” Bobby said. “I may not be able to help you.”

John laughed. “Fair enough,” he said. “But at least I know I’m not completely alone in this anymore.”

The door closed behind him leaving Bobby once again by himself in the room. After a minute spent wondering whether he’d end up regretting his emotional decision to help John find whatever it was that killed his wife, he succumbed to the exhaustion which was rapidly overtaking him. Crawling underneath the covers, he fell into the first deep and restful sleep he’d had in over a week.


End file.
